Red Light
by amyblair
Summary: Set in Season 5 - Sam and Dean get sidetracked into a hunt that neither brother expects. Just back from being reunited, both men have to let go of each other without letting go. Action, angst, lots of swearing, oh - and the pretty!
1. Chapter 1

**Red Light.**

**Disclaimer: **Really? Do I need to do this? I'm not normally a safety girl. Sigh… they're not mine. No money. Just pleasure. See? I told you I wasn't a safety girl.

**Time Frame: **Takes place in Season 5, after _I Believe the Children are Our Future_

**SUPA-DUPA: **Thanks to the lovely **MAZ101** for reading this through and catching things my eyes skimmed over. I love her ers… that she gives me. Warms my er… heart.

**One More Thing: **If you are use to reading my other stories, I feel compelled to warn you – this is a bit darker and maybe a little odder than my norm. There are going to be times where you wonder what the hell is going on and it's suppose to read that way for a couple of chapters. There will still be angst, lots of swearing, action, and beautiful men. But, it's a little different. So, enough of this already. On with the, er… story.

**Red Light.**

**Chapter One: Somewhere in Between**

She left the diner too damn late. Twelve hours of crappy customers and shitty tips with no lunch for herself. Bo begging her to stay for another four hours. Even promised her his tips which coming from him showed how desperate he was. But it was already too damn late.

"Fuck it." She punched out as the clock ticked twelve minutes past five and that was nine minutes later than she usually stayed. Five o'three, anything past that and she knew he started to worry.

It was moments like these – feet killing her, too much change and not enough dollars – where everything seemed to be wrapped in a suffocating bubble of instant Karma. A dead battery on her cell phone, hitting every damn red light in town, Johnny Law and his white crusader that followed her for 2.7 miles.

It felt like something was beating the air out of her.

"Shit." She needed a cup of coffee. Iced. Double shot. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel, keeping time to _Twilight Zone_, her head shaking offbeat to the rhythm. She closed her eyes and tried for a few seconds to calm her nerves. In reality, there was nothing to be worried about. Mickey always stayed in the house. He never wandered outside to play until after she got home. He was eleven and such a good boy. A never fighting-no smoking-yes ma'aming-straight-A student. This was no big deal.

Except in the pit of her stomach, she kind of thought maybe it was. The last couple of nights had been particularly bad and when he had woken her with a quiet "Mom?" nothing had seemed to settle well with her since.

"_Mom?"_

_Her eyes automatically opened at the sound of his voice. It was pitch black in her bedroom, but she could still see his outline against the dark. "What is it, Mickey?" _

"_I…" he stopped not wanting to continue, but his throat was tight and she could hear him swallow. "I saw a monster outside my window."_

_Even then she felt her heart sink. Plummet. It was happening again. Dead husbands meant dead fathers and for months after Charlie had died, Mickey had _seen things_. _

_Still, she got out of bed. She walked him back down the hallway, turning on the lights, letting him see with his own eyes that there was nothing in his bedroom. Nothing out the window. It was all just the way he left it. Then she sat down on the edge of his bed as he crawled back under the covers. She couldn't help but notice the tremble of his chin._

"_Mickey," she started gently, "do you need to… do _we_ need to see somebody again?"_

_But he was shaking his head, his big brown eyes following hers. There was a thump behind her and for a second, she felt the blood whoosh through her body as she whipped around. _

_It was just Whiskey Joe, the cat. He pawed his way up the length of the bed and nestled himself under Mickey's arm. She reached out and stroked her son's hair away from his face as he stroked Whiskey's fur. The rumble from the tabby was enough to vibrate the bed._

"_It wasn't like that," Mickey finally spoke up. "It wasn't like when dad died." He looked up at his mother. "This was _real_."_

_It took every ounce of energy left in her to nod at him. To look at him and make him think she believed him when she knew damn good and well that she didn't. "What did you see exactly?"_

_He nodded to his window. "There were eyes staring back at me. They were orange and they were shaped like an animal. Or a devil."_

_A weighted pause pulled between mother and son and her gaze drifted away, landing on Whiskey Joe. His eyes ticked and narrowed at her and she found herself gesturing to the cat. "Maybe it was Whiskey."_

_Mickey looked at his pet and turned its face up so he could look in the cat's eyes. They were round and some would say orangish in color. "No," he said after studying them. "It wasn't him."_

Great_, she thought. _Back to fucking square one_._

And with that, she was almost angry with herself that she was allowing his overactive imagination to control her today. Last night had been more of the same except this time he was screaming, tears filling his eyes. She scratched the thought of coffee and shifted gears to Vodka. Straight up. She flipped off a guy wailing on his horn, cussing under her breath as she shagged ass to get home to the always-safe walls that kept them secluded from any dangers in the world.

So it surprised her when she found the front door was ajar when she reached it. The hinges were busted and there was a large boot print embedded in the worn wood. She stopped and stared at it for a full ten seconds, keys in her hands, ready to unlock the deadbolt.

That's when she got the shakes.

She pushed the door open and sucked in a breath too heavy to fill her lungs. Her eyes darted from one wall to the other. Toppled furniture. Broken glass. TV set busted. Her china cabinet destroyed.

It was the aftermath. She could hear it inside her head – the crashing and the busting – but now, it held an unnerving silence.

"Mickey?" She called out, her body walking into the wreckage. The glass snapped below her feet like hard candy between teeth and a cold breeze glimpsed her skin. Eyes were watching her.

She turned too fast, too clumsy, too scared to see the yellow-orange eyes of Whiskey, his too fat tabby body curled up against the wall. He released a growl deep in his throat and even that was wrong.

"Mickey?" Louder this time, desperate. Her hand guided her to the banister at the end of the stairs and her fingers slid on something slick. Trembling, she turned her palm up to see what she already knew was there.

"MICKEY!" she screamed, running up the staircase to find the bedrooms in perfect condition. And empty.

The police called in the missing person report. A young detective explained to her in simple words that she would be allowed to go in and grab certain personal belongings to get her through the next week. The house would be a crime scene for days. Tests and pictures and samples and boxes were taken out the door. Nothing, though, came back in. There were only two things missing: her area rug and her son.

"They'll find him," her neighbor soothed, a warm hand on her back. "And then they'll catch whoever took him."

She nodded, sighing a disbelieving, "Yeah." And let him pull her into his embrace.

"Hey, Sarge!" a too-eager rookie called out the front door. He lifted up what was left of the curtains. They were ripped, shredded into fine ribbons. "What do you think of this?"

The Sergeant was already up the steps of the porch with an evidence bag, shushing the young officer, his finger pointing in the direction of the distraught mother. They bagged the curtains, marking it with yellow tape and didn't look over their shoulders when they left the house. They barely even acknowledged her as the squad cars pulled away.

Her neighbor released his hold on her and picked his shovel up, getting ready to scoop rocks out of an old trash can and refill them on his gravel driveway.

She started slowly toward her front door, ducking under the police tape, feeling more alone than when Charlie had died. More helpless, more cold as her hair stuck to the tape that separated her from what was left of her life. She stopped as she crouched down, her fingers reaching into the dirt and pulling up something sharp, curved, and pearlish in color. She frowned at it. "What do you think this is?"

Her neighbor rested his weight on the shovel and took it from her hand studying it long and hard. Finally he shrugged. "Tooth." He said it so nonchalantly that her interest suddenly peaked. His mouth turned down as he pocketed the item and then his cold green gaze raised up to meet hers.

She felt her stomach tighten, realizing that this moment had been saved for just the two of them. The wind kicked up, blowing her long blonde hair off her tear stained face. Her arms pricked with goose bumps as they held each other's eyes.

He gave her his best Joker smile. "It's all in the details, Gracie."

She swallowed a lump down, feeling her throat rub dry against the rawness of her insides. A wave of nausea rushed her as her own blood flooded a warning to her body. "What is… in the details?" she asked hesitantly.

His smile unimaginably broadened and with a wink, he answered, "The Devil."

She was almost able to scream as the shovel swung, but the blow came too fast and before she could register that her body had been dragged across the yard, it was too late. She was on the floor of his house and he was standing in front of her, the door shutting quietly behind him, the lock clicked into place.

She dug her elbows into the wood planks and started a blind scamper behind her, never taking her eyes off his hovering form. Then something stopped her from behind. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her blood soaked area rug. Rolled-up and stuffed with God knew what.

He grinned and licked his lips. And now she screamed.

WWW

He was dreaming again.

Freak_. Tortured, with a dash of contempt. The hits kept on hitting – one to the stomach, a couple across his jaw – he could feel the crack – back to the stomach until he was lurching on the floor. _Monster_. Hands strung up above his head. Too tight to get loose. _Atrocity_. A knife held in a fat hand, slicing his chest open until he could see his heart beating rapidly under the protection of his ribcage. _Abomination_. And then the best part – the blood – shaken not stirred. _Fiend_. He was sure they were going to pry his mouth open now. Let him have a taste, watch him morph into the evil they already knew he was. _

_But they didn't. Not this time. Instead they ripped his artery in half and poured it directly into his heart. _Murderer.

Sam's head banged against the passenger side window and he shifted nervously, like he was falling, his hand flying first to the dashboard for balance and then to his chest, fingers shaking to the hammering of his heart. He took in a series of quick breaths as the thrumming calmed and he started to wake from the cold, swallowing extra spit, blinking wildly to remind himself where he was.

The rattle and hum of the Impala was like a mother singing a fucking lullaby. She did that to him. Consoled him in leather and metal and wrapped an invisible hold on him, lulling him to sleep. That and the fact that his brother was in the driver's seat. For some reason sleeping in the car had been some of the best hours of sleep he'd had since he couldn't remember when.

Except for when he had the nightmares. They still rocked him pretty hard and when the bough breaks, the goddamn cradle always spun out of control.

"You okay?"

His eyes slid over to the dark figure at the steering wheel. It was way past midnight and if Dean thought he was driving through another night, Sam was going to have to call him on it. They were, after all human, and sleep kind of came along with the job title.

His first instinct was to lie. Nod his head and say everything was great, but he found himself shaking his head. Honesty winning out to half-truths.

"What?" Dean asked, glancing at Sam and then back to the road.

Sam kept the tempo with his head until he was able to clear his throat and find words he had long stored away. "Just, a bad dream."

He could feel Dean's concern before he found his brother's eyes.

"Just a regular bad dream," Sam clarified. Jesus, he hadn't had a vision in a couple of years. But nothing would surprise either one of them anymore.

They'd had their asses beaten all across the States and they'd lost. This time they hadn't just lost their lives, though. They'd lost their way. Which was worse. Truth and trust on the line in the big fucking game of Life. It was the beginning of the end. And that's exactly where the Winchesters came into play. Dean lit the fuse and Sam ignited it into a forest fire.

They were doing a fuck up job saving the world so far.

Sam saw Dean veer his body to the left, the seat crunching as he turned, knew he was looking out the window harder than before. A few signs whizzed past the windshield, but Sam wasn't paying much attention. He was busy watching out his own window. The view was the same it had always been his entire twenty-six years. They were moving forward, backward, side-to-side, while the rest of the world, night or day, stayed still.

He blinked slowly, still coming down off the tail end of his dream. _You're safe_, he thought, catching the moon peeking out behind fluffy gray clouds. _Dean's here…_ he stopped himself from finishing the thought. They were getting their groove back, becoming partners in this cluster they caused, finding one another at the middle of the road, rejoining again as family. Not Little Brother. Not Big Brother. Just brothers.

_We're all we got._

Sam closed his eyes. Dean was right. He'd been right to call Sam, to meet up with him. To start the process of forgiveness. And Sam couldn't be more grateful. He could feel a warmth swell under his fingertips, his heart bouncing somewhere inside him. It reminded him that he wasn't broken anymore, but the cracks were still there. He opened his eyes and watched as the moon sped along with them. And wondered if it knew where they were heading.

"Food?"

Sam craned his neck to the left. Dean's eyes were set straight ahead on the road. Sometimes he still held Sam at an arm's length. Sometimes he still looked at Sam with a glint of fear in his eye. Sometimes Sam wondered if they were both just kidding each other. Maybe Dean wouldn't be able to save the world because he couldn't save Sam.

And that thought? Always left Sam choking.

"Sure."

Because that's how it worked now. It was the unspoken truth. They were past the time where they hunted monsters in the dark. A nest of vampires? A shifty shapeshifter? They all seemed like teeny tiny ants compared to what they battled now. It was a vacation to get a lead on a malevolent spirit.

"I saw a sign for a diner up ahead." Dean's finger pointed into the waiting black. "Open twenty-four hours."

Sam rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand watching as the next town approached. Small streetlights with soft hues of yellow lit the way as Dean pulled the old Chevy into an open spot in front of a really worn down restaurant sporting the name _Swing Inn_ and turned the ignition off.

Then, there was the pause. Sam waited for it. The engine off, the music dead and Dean breathing, looking ahead – never at Sam – and Sam didn't know why. What was he waiting for? What was he afraid of? Sam felt his heart thud _ba-boom-boom_ through four long beats before Dean finally reached his hand for the car door.

In all honesty, the sound of the squeaky hinge made Sam's eyes water. It didn't take much to cause the reaction anymore. A whole year of fighting his tears and fighting himself was catching up with him in ways he wasn't quite prepared for. His emotions were high. It was hard to keep his anger in check and even harder to keep the tears from erupting.

Dean flung the door open to the diner and a whiff from the homemade eatery made Sam's stomach growl. He felt his arm tingle and his cheek twinge all the way up to his salivary glands. It still happened. The black desire was there and he felt his body call out to him. He was drained and hungry and it was in these moments when he remembered that food wasn't the only thing he craved. But his mind and his body weren't on speaking terms either, so for as long as it took, he would ignore it.

The diner was covered in yellow. Mustard colored booths, pale and paler yellow striped wallpaper, creamy yellow plates. It was just about enough to make him sick and suddenly Sam's stomach wasn't talking as loud anymore.

Dean slid into the first available table easily, maneuvering his body at an odd angle where it pointed out of the booth more than in. Sam sat still, watching his brother's strange dance of positioning himself within proximity, but pushed away from having to look at one another.

Sam's fault, that one. Promises broken. Choosing evil over family. He deserved a little cold shoulder therapy.

"Hey, there." Two menus were slapped down in front of each of them. Sam saw the curve of Dean's mouth lift to the waitress and his own eyes skated across to the older lady. Thin, with dark hair tumbling over her shoulders masking hints of gray.

Dean pushed his menu back. "Coffee."

She lifted her pen and tapped her notepad twice. Sam narrowed his eyes. She looked bored, probably tired, though. It was a twenty-four hour joint. "Black?"

A nod from Dean and then nothing.

She turned towards Sam and gave him a half a smile. She didn't warm to him right away, her body stiffened for a brief second and he felt his cheeks flush. He had always been put on Old Lady Patrol during their hunts. It was just a known fact – older women seemed to notice how cute his dimples were or how he needed a haircut. But that was then and this was now. Lately Sam didn't have the fuzzy-safe effect on people that he used to. Without the dimples? He looked less like Innocent College Student and more like Shady Van Guy.

Sam was sure he was going to O.D. on coffee one day and tonight could possibly be that magical number but his shoulders involuntarily lifted up and down. "Sure. The same." If he drank any more fucking coffee his blood was going to bleed black. His stomach growled again and he rubbed his hand over his eyes. Sleep and dying. Right now, that was all that was on his mind. And he couldn't shake the feeling that neither was going to relieve him from this misery any time soon.

She gathered the menus in one clean swipe and skittered away, back to the counter where she easily poured the coffee into plain yellow mugs and then retreated to her customers with a long sigh.

"Thanks," Dean said with a smile, immediately putting the cup to his lips and blowing.

She lifted a curious eyebrow at Sam, who knew the coffee would be like any other crappy cup he'd gotten in a dive like this – hot and strong – and then decided to use the steam to warm his hands.

"Holler if you need anything," she called out, voice uninterested turning to the booth behind the brothers and continued her conversation with the locals.

Sam took the quiet moment to settle his back into the cushion of the booth. He looked around the small room, noting pictures of the Mississippi River, lava lamps, a mounted catfish. He glanced out the big, front window into the dark and realized then that the last time he had his eyes open, he had been watching the sunset.

"How long did I sleep?" he asked, leaning across the table, shoving the coffee aside.

Dean shrugged. "Few hours."

"What? Really?"

Dean didn't bother looking up. "Don't think I haven't noticed you haven't been sleeping. You just conked out. I thought you needed coupla hours."

Sam wouldn't argue. He couldn't. He hadn't slept much since his visit from Lucifer. Something about knowing an angel of darkness could find him there, contort his face into past loves, touch him places only few had, make him offers, tell lies and see realities. Sam shuddered. "Where are we?"

"Illinois. Outside the Quad cities."

That explained the pictures of the Mississippi. Sam nodded, taking the cup of coffee and rolling it between his hands. They had been back on apocalypse duty. Saving the world vs. saving a town. Cas had given an order, gave a demand for them to complete a job, and they couldn't do it.

Of course, neither could Cas. Killing a half demon child wasn't as easy as he thought. It didn't matter if the boy had beat him to the punchline – with class. He still had hesitated. The kid was human, too. Born from a daughter of God. Innocent. Flawed. Special.

Sam blinked away the moisture from his eyes. His hands were above the coffee mug now, the steam forcing his palms to sweat to the point of pain. He pulled them away and looked over at Dean.

His brother was staring back and at first Sam thought he was just watching Sam's bizarre game with the coffee until he noticed how incredibly still Dean had become. Sam frowned at him, but Dean shook his head lightly. He was listening, just not to Sam.

Sam could hear the sketchy voices filter over the booth from next door, two men and the waitress batting ideas and theories off one another.

"What're we payin' taxes for then, huh?" One of the guys, a husky tone, was asking. "They ask for a departmental raise and this is what we get with our money?"

"Curtains were shred." The other guy. Quieter. "What does that?"

There was a pause. Then the husky man, "Cat?"

"Oh, for God's sake." Quite-guy was making a scrunched face that Sam could see over Dean's shoulder. "Fat ass tabby cat couldn't have done that." Another pause. "They weren't just scratched. They were mangled. Like a wild animal."

The waitress was rubbing bony fingers up and down her skinny arms. "Shut up, Billy. I can't even think like that."

Sam could see Billy's face ease. "Sorry, Gloria. Just… just thinkin' out loud." The guy watched her sympathetically for a long minute. "I want them to find her, too. First Mikey goes missin'-"

"Mickey." Quick and bothered. Personal. She knew him.

Billy didn't correct himself. "And now with Gracie gone. It's just…" he lost his words then and Sam wondered if he was being careful or if he wasn't sure which road he should venture down.

"Weird," the husky man finished. "And you know what I heard they found?"

Sam watched as Dean's muscles tensed.

"I heard they found scales."

"Scales?" Billy was scrunching his face again. "You mean like a reptile?"

Shoulders were shrugging. "Guess so. Like a gator came in and ate them."

Billy laughed without really letting loose. "You mean, you think a gator came into the house, ripped up the curtains and then ate Mikey and Grace?" He drowned out the absurdity of the thought with a couple of low chuckles.

The husky guy squared his stance and Sam could see a long finger pointing in Billy's direction. "That's how Captain Hook bought it."

Which caused Billy's chuckle to escalate.

Dean's hand was signaling the waitress before Sam had a chance to clear his throat. "Excuse me, sweetheart?"

Gloria tilted back to the other booth, giving the Winchesters her tired, her poor, her don't-fuck-with-me-now attitude. "Check?" she guessed.

Dean smiled, letting it spread up his checks to his eyes. "Yeah, that'd be great. And, can I ask, I over heard your conversation… someone is missing?"

Dean was itching. He'd been Jonesing for a hunt for weeks now. And Sam? He just really wanted it all to be over with.

Gloria was tearing the bill off her white pad, handing it reluctantly over to Dean, her blue eyes glimpsing at Sam every so often.

He made sure to have a sweet smile on his face, tipping his head and dimples toward her.

"Uh, huh," she finally said. "Two people. Gracie Reimer and her boy, Mickey." Her eyes gained distance. "He went missing first and then the next day, she was gone, too." There was a painful beat as Gloria bit her lip, sucking the pink into her mouth for a few seconds and finally, "Gracie worked here for nine years. Shit, she trained me. Hard ass worker. Mickey was only two when I met her. Such a sweet kid. I just, the thought of anyone… anything…" She shook her head back and forth and there wasn't any point in continuing on. The only words that would come next would only scare her.

The boys got the gist. They'd become pretty fucking good at reading the signs for _Help_ and _Danger_ and _I'd Turn Back Now If I Were You_.

"This place is the _Swing Inn_?" Dean asked, voice level. "I assume it has rooms for the night?"

Gloria huffed a response. "Sure. Sixty bucks a pop and the owner will only accept cash."

Sam looked out the window with a sigh of relief as Dean counted out the bills. It would feel good to stop and rest, not be the ones moving for once. He heard Dean clear his throat and glanced over at him. Eyebrows wagged an excited word of _Hunt_ at him and Sam tried to smile and mask how the word _Scaredshitless_ was trying to escape him.

WWW

The motel room wasn't as yellow, which was a relief. In fact, for the most part, it was basically a nice neutral tan. It had more boring pictures of the mighty Mississippi and another lava lamp. Not very imaginative and it smelled like almost all of the motel rooms they'd ever stayed in. Must and mold covered up with pine and mint. Cheaper than the normal cheap, even on their budget.

_Well_, Dean thought, _at least it's clean_.

Sam had booted up the laptop when he entered and began a more detailed search on the disappearances of the mother and son. Dean was unpacking some of their gear, checking barrels, sharpening any dull spots on the Bowie, filling flasks with Holy Water, restocking the First Aid Kit.

He was listening to Sam type over the music on his computer. U2. Jesus, Sam knew – he knew – that Dean didn't get them. But he let it drop because Sam was right about certain things. Dean called the shots. Dean took the wheel. And when the driver picks the music, there's only one station playing.

So he listened to Bono shout out a few lyrics and before he knew any better, found himself humming along. _I waited patiently for the Lord/He inclined and heard my cry/He lift me up out of the pit/Out of the miry clay_.

"You singing?"

Dean stopped and let a small smile slip. Sam's hair was tented into messy tufts from the nap in the car, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes longing for more sleep, his body unhinged from pure exhaustion. Dean cocked an eyebrow. Sam looked like a cross between one of the creatures from _Where the Wild Things Are _and_ Night of the Living Dead._ But he didn't want to tell his kid brother that because that kind of a comment might lead to pushing and yelling. It was a level playing ground now.

"You look like somebody beat you with an ugly stick."

Sam looked back to the computer screen. Not even a flinch. He started reading: "Local newspaper says Gracie and her son Mickey have been missing since last Monday and Tuesday."

"Of last week?"

"Yeah," Sam flicked his fingers, counting. "So like, nine and ten days ago. Says that the place was definitely broken into. Boot print on the door, door ripped off its frame, place trashed, kid gone and then… the next day, the mom's gone, too. No note, no calls, just gone."

"And no bodies?"

He felt Sam's eyes on him as Dean tossed the duffel on the floor and then sat on the end of the mattress to pull off his boots. God, that felt like Heaven. He wiggled his toes.

"No." Sam shook his head. "But those dudes were right. The curtains were shredded. A neighbor says he found an odd tooth. And there are rumors that there were scales found around the yard, in the living room."

"What kind of scales?"

"I don't know." Sam read on. "The neighbor claims to have a couple of them."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Guess we pay the neighbor a visit tomorrow." Dean stretched out on the bed. "Shut the light off and get some sleep."

Sam nodded and closed the lid to the laptop. His feet shuffled along the carpet, his fingers peeled off clothes, dressed into others. The going back and forth from the bathroom to his bag was aggravatingly too many times. Dean gave up keeping count.

"Sleep, Sam." Dean felt a muscle bounce, tried to squeeze his eyes harder. The room was staring a tilt-a-whirl from too many hours on the road. He'd driven seventeen straight, Sam took over for eight and then Dean had continued on for another twelve. He should have slept while Sam had the wheel. But his brain wasn't letting him. He couldn't get it to shut off. Just four hours, that was all he'd need, but too many tricks had been played on him. Zachariah had messed him up. Trying to teach him one lesson and by God, Dean had told him to stick it where the sun shined.

He wasn't going to be some suited-field commander for an archangel in this Heaven/Hell war. Especially when the angels he knew didn't play fair. They were just as dirty as the lot of Hell's bitches he'd met.

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed now and Dean was waiting on him_. _He swung his arm over his eyes and willed his brother_ Lay down. Go to sleep._ He wanted to bark the order, old habits and all. Instead he now found himself waiting even longer and that wasn't helping him find sleep faster.

But that was a big piece of Dean's problem. He'd rather drive, rather go somewhere he could keep busy, rather find the Colt, rather get their ducks in a row before they had to fight Lucifer. They weren't running from him, just preparing for him and right now? They were ill-equipped. Hell, they probably always would be, but there was no point in walking in when he knew Lucifer could grab them by the balls. Then everything else that mattered would follow.

_Whatever you do, you will always end up here. You and I will end up here. I win. So, I win._

He made a face under the protection of his arm. Why the fuck did it have to be Sam? Why his brother? Why his family? Why _him_? He cleared his throat in an effort to signal to Sam that he was ready, even though he knew the worry was still gonna rob him of the sleep his body craved. That and the edgy tension that had started as a buzz off his brother's shoulders way before they got the keys to this stinking room and now was car alarm loud.

"Sam," he sighed and tried hard to not growl his brother's name.

The light shut off. Dean removed his arm and started the slow crawl to his stomach, his hands reaching under his pillow, gripping the handle of his knife, the sheets feeling amazingly sweet on his wrists as he slid down, even letting his toes feel the stretch.

His eyes fluttered open and shut and then open again. Sam was still sitting on the edge of the bed. Dean blinked. It was beyond black in the room but yet Dean knew exactly where Sam was, could see the slight movement of his body, his profile catching on soft patches of gray. He watched as it looked like shadows maliciously skipped around his brother, trying to touch, but even they were afraid to ask permission. Dean felt a sudden need to chase those shadows away and even that irritated him. Handing over the keys might have been symbolic, but dammit, handing over control was a completely different story.

"You're not tired?" he asked because it was less concerning than _You okay?_ It said less, was more specific. No open-ended questions needed at forty-two hours since sleep.

But Sam wasn't moving and it didn't look like Dean was going to get off that easy and for fuck's sake, Sam, he just wanted to get some sleep. He felt his entire body pull him down to the mattress, like a heavy weight was pressing an imprint in the middle of his shoulder blades. "Sam?" It was muffled, blocked by the cheap motel pillow. Prickly feathers stabbed his cheeks. Smelled like cigarettes.

"I'm sorry… just go to sleep."

Dean raised his head. Okay, that was something. "You?"

He could see the movement of Sam's bangs. Negative.

"Okay." Dean agreed, but it was a whisper. Dean nestled deep into the sheets and tried to block out the fact that Sam was statued on the other bed and was going to stay like that all night long so Dean could sleep. He gripped the end of his Bowie and hung on tight trying to shut out what was keeping Sam awake. Dead girlfriends burning on ceilings. Dropped coffee cups that wouldn't spill over. His brother back from the dead. Yellowed Eyed Demons and Black Eyed Demons and knowing that out of every son of a bitch in this terrible world that it was you who was the chosen one to ride Lucifer to his reign.

This. This was their fresh start.

He decided to begin again. "You can sleep, Sam. You don't need to worry."

A sarcastic huff was his response.

"You want me to –"

"No." Sharp with a pinch of embarrassment.

_Jesus Christ_. Dean wanted to ignore him but a lot of good that was going to do either of them. He pushed off the bed and reached over to the wall, flicking on the light.

Sam was following him with darker circled eyes, watching as his brother threw the covers off him and pattered to his duffel. He shoved everything from fake badges to iron rounds out of the way until he found what he was looking for at the bottom of the sack.

He stood up and turned to Sam, flashing him a deck of cards, featuring the Best of _Playboy's_ 1990's Magazine covers.

Sam didn't even notice.

"Dean –"

"Come on. Get over here." Dean flopped into a worn down discount chair at the small round table and started shuffling. How many times did he and Sam play late night poker when dad was away? How many quarters and dimes did that boy owe him?

Sam slid into the opposite chair and slammed down a handful of change. He counted seventy-nine cents.

Dean reached down and checked his leather jacket adding his own to the till. He started to count, but Sam was too quick for him. "Eighty-three." They divided the mound quickly into two equal piles of eighty-one cents and then Dean handed over the deck.

"You deal."

Sam kind of stared at it like Dean was offering a piece of gold or a gifted amulet. The thought caused his hand to swiftly rub the back of his bare neck and chase the invisible line of where his necklace should be. Honestly it felt worse than being naked. He felt unguarded.

Sam took the deck and shuffled twice, the ruffle of the cards sounding ten times as loud in the small room. He dealt each of them two cards and then lifted to take a peek. Dean watched him curiously. Sam's left lip ticked up. Low suits. No pairs.

"_If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man._"

Sam tilted his head to the left and looked up at Dean. "Dude, don't even start."

Dean smiled. "What?"

Sam frowned. "You know I can't concentrate when you sing that shit."

Dean rolled his hand to signal Sam to reveal the flop. "Motorhead rocks."

Sam flipped the cards. "Yeah, in 1982." King of Hearts. Jack of Hearts. Eight of Clubs.

Dean drummed the table with his fingers. "I raise you… twenty-five cents."

Sam was studying him.

"_You win some – you lose some – it's all the same to me_."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Did you even look at your cards?"

Dean looked away.

Sam flipped his cards again, staring at them like he could make them magically change to a couple of ladies or a pair of deuces. His lips ticked again to the left and Dean tried not to notice the long exhale Sam released.

"It's just a game," Dean reminded him with a small smile.

But Sam's jaw tightened. "Yeah. Well, you cheat."

Dean waited him out. He started humming again and Sam's eyes flicked up to his. Dean shrugged like he was the man in black, holding all the chips. "Something keeping you up?"

Sam's upper lip stiffened for a half second. "No."

"Whatcha been dreaming about?"

"Candy canes –"

"Sam."

The room was forced into a deafening silence. Dean's ears almost hurt from the words Sam wasn't saying.

"Even if he finds you while you're sleeping, he can't do anything to you. He has to get your permission face to face, you know."

Sam was glaring now. "What is this? Are we playing _Dr. Phil_ or poker?"

Dean's hand reached across and tapped the quarter in the center of the table.

There was a long sigh as Sam rechecked his cards one last time. Same lift of the lip followed by a hesitant, "I call."

_Bingo_. Sam was in his pocket now. Dean shook his head as his brother flipped the turn and their eyes met. King of Diamonds.

Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth, scuffed his fingers down his throat. He knew Sam's hand was low, had to be. To the left, low – to the right, high. Unless he'd learned some new tricks in card playing since he'd been to Hell. He drew in a deep breath. "All in." And shoved the change into the pile.

Sam shifted and cast a chilly gaze Dean's way. "You haven't even looked at your cards, have you?"

Dean just smiled. "_The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say_."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine!" Sam yelled and pushed his remaining silver into the pile. "All in."

Dean chuckled. "Shuffle up and deal, Sam."

They each eyed the last card, begging to be plucked off the top of the pile. Sam's right hand clenched into a fist for a brief second so Dean carefully laid his open hand near.

"You ever think about saying yes?" Sam suddenly asked, his throat bobbing with each word.

There wasn't any clarification of what Sam was talking about. Didn't need to be. "No." Easy answer, not even a second guess.

"Why?"

Well, that was a question Sam had never tired of. Always with the why's – Why did mom die? Why does dad leave all the time? Why don't we have enough food? Why are we moving? Why are you telling me what to do? Why did you sell your soul for me? Why couldn't I save you? Why wasn't I strong enough? Why me? Why you?

Sam and his stupid goddamn questions.

Dean's voice lowered, making sure Sam heard him. "Because Michael and Lucifer have already had their fight. This one… this one's ours."

"You don't… ever think…" Sam's eyes were jumpy, his voice damn near impossible to hear. "You won't be strong enough?"

_Oh, that_. Dean kept his stance, staring at Sam like he could cut through all the crap with an invisible blade. Head-to-Head poker was nothing like Head-to-Head arguments with his brother. And playing reckless was only going to get Dean shut out. "You gotta be bigger than the bear."

Sam sat still and Dean took that as still having the floor.

"When a bear charges you do you run away? Do you do nothing? Or do you charge back?" Silently, Dean settled back, felt his shoulders fall, watching Sam. They were out of synch, trying to figure out which dance they where dancing because each misstep was a wedge driving them further apart. Sometimes it was words, sometimes it was actions, sometimes it was nothing at all that caused the tango to get tangled. "I'm going to keep saying no because I'm in this fight to fight. Not them. They had their time."

Sam dropped his eyes but Dean held on. He wanted him to feel this in his heart, know that there was no choice. Not for Dean. He knew what mattered most to him. Integrity. Honor. Truth. Sam.

Sam stared at the last card and Dean waited him out.

_We keep each other human._

"You know you're going down, right?"

Dean's brow furrowed.

"I gotta killer hand."

There was almost a triumphant sound to his voice and if Dean had been any other player, he might have second guessed his play. "One more card. It's still anybody's game."

Sam peeled off the last card and glared across the table. "_I don't share your greed, the only card I need is…_"

Dean watched as the river came up, Sam pulling it slower than normal and both blinked in disbelief as the Ace of Spades stared back at them.

Neither said a word for a full ten seconds.

"We've never done that before, have we?" Sam whispered.

Dean's face lightened. "Not that I can remember."

They stared at the lone suit for another moment and then Sam flipped over his cards. Four of Clubs. Eight of Diamonds. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged at his brother.

_You have to let me grow-up_.

_Maybe_, Dean thought, _but I still got your number_. He nodded and threw his never-before-seen-cards over Sam's. Two of Clubs. Five of Spades.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "I win."

Dean winced a little at the words. "This time."

Sam's head was still shaking. "But, you never looked at your hand. How… why did you go all in?"

Dean leaned back in his chair, pushing its front legs off the ground. "'Cause I was never betting on the game, Sam."

It was like a whirlwind of action. Sam was up turning abruptly from the table, away from Dean. His hands brushing through his hair, hot and tempered, his shoulders rising and falling too fast to keep his breathing in check. Dean couldn't tell from the back of him if it was anger, guilt, or frustration that was taking over, but he sort of figured Sam was somewhere in between all of it.

They were infamous for always being in between.

"Dean –" Sam warned and he had to wait because it didn't take Oprah to decipher that if Sam wasn't going to break, his voice sure as hell was. "You think…"

Dean didn't move. He barely breathed.

"It has to be… face to face?"

Fear had changed for Dean. Before it had been about shooting first and asking questions later, protecting Sam and waving big sticks around to keep evil at bay. Now it was like a big ass claw closing down on him and all he had was the stick. Pushing a piece of wood in between metal teeth that was going to rip him apart regardless of what he did.

And it was the same, too. Because no matter what he told himself, he still did what he could to protect Sam. Even when he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Has to be for me, right? It would be the same for you. Same kind of enemy, really."

It was a seemingly endless amount of minutes that passed and Dean hated the feeling of being helpless, as he noticed Sam wipe at his face. There was no sniffling or sobbing which was a good thing, but he wasn't sure if he gave Sam anything useful, anything that he needed. And throughout history, he always knew that Sam _needed_.

Still, he kind of found himself bracing for a fist.

Sam cleared his throat. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

There was a gesture with his head towards the bed. "Sleep."

Dean nodded, knowing Sam couldn't see him, but nodded anyway. Job apparently well played. "Okay." He got up before Sam could change his mind, left the cards where they lay, and eased back down into the rumpled blankets. The light turned off as he turned his body to the left side and he watched as Sam awkwardly glided into his bed.

The room was inky with darkness, but Dean knew that Sam was facing him, could feel his eyes palpating across the distance of the two beds. He wanted to fix his gaze back, but it had been almost forty-three hours since his last sleep and the room was spinning faster than his heart rate. If he didn't sleep now, he was either going to hurl or die of a heart attack.

And right now, he could have happily slept like he was dead.

"You gonna stare at me all night?" Sam's voice toggled in the night.

Dean's vision twirled as his eyes opened. "If I have to…" It came out slurred, though, and his eyes slowly shut again. So close to sleep… and he didn't have to watch out for Sam anymore. He was all grown up.

So close.

There was a short pause and then Sam was saying something about turning around so neither one had to look at the other. Dean thought he agreed and rolled over, hearing Sam's bed squeak as he moved the other way. The prickles of the feathers soon floated away and Dean's head sunk deeper into the pillow like it was a bed of sand.

Sam moved again, bringing his drifting attention back. Dean wanted to say something, give Sam words of reassurance to help him fall asleep. Something that was brilliant, something that would give them both a healthy eight hours.

"You need to relax, Sammy," he drawled like he was secretly from Tennessee. It wasn't what he wanted to say, wasn't what Sam needed to hear, but his body was unwinding in places his mind wasn't caught up with yet.

It seemed forever and came too soon when Sam simply answered, "Thanks for having my back, man."

_Huh_, Dean thought as the world went topsy-turvy, _that was a pretty good one_. The room spun again, filtering in colors from the day to mix with the black. There, in the distance behind his eyelids, Dean could see a dark-haired woman. Tight curls against her head. She curled a long finger toward him, beckoning him to her. He took a few come-hither steps, seeing she was wearing nothing but high heels. Her dark skin bathed and shimmered in a mystical, soft red light. He fixated on her breasts, extra large for his taste, and quizzically wondered how they stayed so perky. Must not be real, but as his hands reached out in front of him and cupped them softly, a smile spread across his face.

_I'll be damned_, was his last conscious thought. They were.

-TBC-

**Playlist: **_40 _performed by U2 (song was inspired from Psalm 40)

_Ace of Spades _performed by Motorhead

_Twilight Zone_ (in reference to) performed by Golden Earring

**A/N:** It will all tie in together, really. And there's action a coming – Promise. I have the first four chapters written, this will probably be six chapters long and I will update every three – four days. Thanks for reading!


	2. Trade Up

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One

**A/N: **Again, just a general warning that this story is going to get a little dark at times. This chapter is still a work-up to what is to come.

**Masta-Beta:** I adore **MAZ101**. I love that she is out there pushing and pulling me and I think she is one of the coolest-ass DeanGirls out there. But she puts up with my Sam-isms with all her heart, too. Sam and I thank-you for that, Maz.

**Chapter Two: Trade Up**

He threw on his tightest jeans, his dark green Abercrombie t-shirt, and slapped on a little extra cologne. He scrubbed his hand down his jaw line and felt the stubble just begging to be trimmed away. Looked pretty good. He readjusted his jeans again, pulling them up over his hips and watched as his manly package bulged bigger, mightier than normal. Big enough to blow a wad on. Yeah, he looked pretty fucking good.

"Ronnie?" she called from downstairs. He sniffed harshly, looking up each nostril as he did. A quick crack of his neck to the left and the right. Shoulders squared and holding his head up like a King on his Throne. He was ready.

"Yeah?" Down the stairs he went, passing her by. She was on the sofa, again. Nursing one of the twins, again. He didn't look over. Instead he made a bee-line for his black hand-stitched John Fluevogs and started to lace them. Quickly, his fingers couldn't move fast enough.

"You're going out with Da-?"

"Yes." His answer out before she had a chance to finish and before she asked the next set of questions. "Probably just stickin' at his place. Kick back a couple. Play some pool. Be back by midnight." Both shoes on, tied in double knots. He grabbed his leather and now – now – he allowed himself a few seconds to look at her.

She sat on the sofa in her usual place, her right elbow tucked under a small bald head. The baby didn't move, all nice and warm against her mother's bosom, but she made suckling sounds and grunted a few times, letting her presence be known.

He swallowed the rise of revulsion at the sight. The baby – the babies – that had came as a surprise to both of them, entering their world when they were broker than broke. Living past paycheck to paycheck. Stretching their budget way beyond their means and stretching Drew's skin into the fat mess that she was now. Long dead was the bride of twenty-three that he had married. Slender with sharp hip bones that slammed against him, rocking him like a fucking rock star. Long gone were the days where she wanted him. Where she craved him. Now she nagged and asked for things like nursing bras and extra absorbent maxi pads.

He just needed a break from it all.

"You need me to pick up anything?"

She smiled and it almost broke his heart. When she looked at him like that, he could still see a faint apparition of who she once was. Now it was just this extra-blubbered person who haunted their home. "No. I think we're good. You just go on and have a good time."

He nodded and tried to give her a smile back, wondering if he was pulling it off. The baby made a sound, though, and she looked away, not noticing his effort. She was busy with 'switching sides' as she called it and he turned away from the transfer, not even curious which babe it was that she was feeding.

"Well," he started so he could get out the door, "call if you think of something." He passed by the dining room table, his eyes catching on the last cupcake left over from dessert. She was going to eat it. Once the baby was done nursing, she'd put her down in her bassinette, walk over to the table and lick the plate clean. She was never going to get back into her size 4's and she was well beyond a size 12 as it was.

"Tell Dave I said hi!" he heard her yell out as he quietly shut the door.

And then there was the moment as he rounded the stop sign, house disappearing in the rearview mirror that he felt a warmth run through his spine, fusing to his nerve endings and traveling the length of his body, screaming to all his cells: Freedom!

Dave lived to the west, but he was driving north. North and north and north until the Quad Cities were well behind him and he was entering the Iowa side of the divide, his Camry taking him into Dewitt. To the only place he intended on going that night.

Escape.

Way out here in middle America, the only place a man who was stretched to his limits, stretched to his dollar, stretched to his duty could find the kind of escape that Ronnie needed that night was a place where nobody knew your name. Didn't care what your name was. Just wanted a few bucks laid down and you could tell them you were anybody you wanted to be. A few bucks more and you could believe you were that person, too.

The _Girls Girls Girls_ sign with the neon leg that lifted up and down was like a beacon in the night. It stood out amongst the small town bars, like its little own red light district, waving over lone cars with men like him, looking for two things – youth and attention.

The sex part was just the tool.

It was called _the Booby Trap_ and there was just one girl he would show up to see, J Swallo. He wasn't sure what the name actually meant, although he had his ideas and since he always paid for a lap dance, it was hard to know for sure.

But tonight, that was going to change. Another great thing about places like this was no one talked to each other. No one looked at each other. It was all done on code. Come in, keep your eyes low, watch the girls, pay some money, but don't look around.

So he walked up to the 'Request Desk' and pointed to J Swallo's name on a piece of paper and then he ran his finger down the list of options, passing by 'Lap Dance' and stopping on 'Private Room'. He hadn't been this adventurous for years, but as he pulled out his wallet and slapped down a hundy, he thought she might just be worth it. The guy – gray beard hanging over the counter, antique in age, and could obviously take him down – tapped the money once and Ronnie sighed. Prices had gone up apparently. Over the music and spinning bodies on gleaming poles, he counted quietly. Three twenties, two tens, a five and five ones. Two hundred dollars. He looked up, Old Bearded Guy watching the money, the room around him moving in sparkly motion. It smelled like jizz and piss but he hoped it tasted like forgotten futures and lollipops. Cherry, if he could have his pick.

He handed over the rest of the money and hoped he had enough gas to get him back home. Didn't let himself think of diapers or tiny giggles.

This was _his_ escape for fucks sake. His fantasy.

The back room was so white that it hurt his eyes if he stared at one spot for too long. There was a table pushed up against the wall, like in a doctor's exam room, with two chairs flanking it. Ronnie took the one to the right and his shoulders jumped as the door pulled shut, the boom echoing in the suffocating tiny room. The fluorescent lights buzzed noisily from above, reminding his ears of where he was. It cast an odd glow, making his hands look green, knowing the rest of him looked much the same way and suddenly he realized that the tight jeans probably wouldn't matter so much.

But then the door opened and she entered their private session, long body leaning against the opposite wall, cigarette pressed up to her mouth, a flick of the lighter and she was inhaling.

She wasn't exactly how he pictured her now that she was out of the dark. Her face was scrunched up like an old-fashioned doll and her teeth were wonky, none of them sitting where they were suppose to be. Her body, though, was thin and lanky and her tits weren't engorged from too much milk. In fact, they were pretty small, all things considered.

"What'dya wanna do?" she asked and Ronnie knew, the way she talked, her tongue clacking on the roof of her mouth, like she was chewing on gum, that she wasn't very long outside of high school. Hell, if she even finished.

He smiled though, couldn't help it, and answered honestly: "Everything."

So she smiled back and strutted her skinny ass over to him and escape turned from fantasy to reality in six quick strokes.

It turned out, much to his relief, that he did have enough gas to get home. And that Drew hadn't waited up for him. The house was dark, the babies sleeping, the cupcake and the plate not surprisingly missing from the dining room table. He raised his eyebrows, didn't care much, though. Tonight she could have her cake and eat it, too.

It was back to his life again, shedding off his clothes, climbing with his boxers on into the bed, trying hard not to jostle his wife next to him.

"You have a good night?" her voice waffled over the covers and blankets and his eyes screwed tightly shut.

"Yeah," he breathed and waited her out. She rolled over, propped herself up on an elbow. _Shit. She wants to talk_.

"Did you tell Dave hi for me?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Too hard to interpret anything with the black draped around them.

"Yeah." He reached over and flicked on his bedside lamp so she could see him as he answered her questions. They'd been down the 'trust' road before and he knew the rules of the game, new the sound of her voice. He looked back at her. "Yeah." Again, more convincing.

She sat up and pulled her right hand in through her arm hole, followed by her left. He watched as they disappeared behind her back, unlatching her massive nursing bra from behind. She was babbling on about the twins and how they had been sleeping for two whole hours now and she was singing – "_Oh, no, don't be shy. You don't have to go blind. Hold me, Thrill me, Kiss me, Kill me"_.

_Jesus Christ_, he realized, _she wants to have sex_. Her bra was off and she was holding it in her hands, stretching it in front of him in a bashful, teasing motion.

"Oh, by the way, Dave called while you were out."

He frowned at her. Dave had been on a fishing trip. Had he come back early? Was this a trick? He blinked too fast and knew it was a tell. "What?"

"You know, certain things can be driven out of the heart by the touch of a hand on another hand or a mouth on another mouth." She talked slowly, calmly and shook her head at him, like she felt sorry for him.

"What?" he asked again, his voice finding the volume button as it pumped up an octave.

"Like love and lust and angels and…" She looked down at his lying face and she had him. She stared so hard at him it hurt. And she _had_ him. "The devil can bring out your heart, Ronnie."

"Why are you –" he muttered and then lost all his words as the giant nursing bra wrapped around his neck and she pulled tighter and tighter until he felt the Lycra cutting into his neck like a thin wire. He could taste the blood running down his throat as his consciousness flapped like the wings of a black bird. In and out. On top and on bottom. Side to side. The reels of his life playing like a silent movie. Drew walking down an aisle with flowers in her hair. Then a splash of yellow on her chin from a homemade paintball war in the backyard. Then she was holding him and smiling, his hand on her expanding belly, feeling the little kicks inside and he suddenly got it – He was happy.

Then the bra did its job and his shoulders weren't supporting his head any longer.

WWW

"There's another guy missing," Sam announced as Dean blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

Okay, so this wasn't a good day.

Dean woke up to Sam and his news – another person missing, a father of twins who lived not far from the other two missing people – and there was no coffee. Which really ticked Dean off because it was so obvious that Sam was not only awake but had barely slept. He had plenty of time to brew a pot. Asshole.

His feelings of irritation were swiftly pushed aside as he silently watched his brother. There was no disguising those hollowed eyes, the dark purpled circles, the wild look behind them, the way his gaze landed on everything without seeing anything.

_Oh, Sam._ Irritation switched to concern and Dean did what he could to not Mother Hen his brother. He could fake his remembrances of Hell, he could lie for months about secrets Dad shared with him. Shaking off brotherly concern? Cake walk.

Sam was looking at him, though, and his face was drawn up into a smear of worry lines that stretched beyond his forehead. His eyes dropped to his hands and his body was still. "Dean," his voice ragged, "I'm… you know… I'm all right…" and his eyes lifted back up. "Okay?"

_No_. It was so obvious. It was plain as day and clear as night that Sam was walking on a line that both of them had fought to stay away from. He'd already teetered and tottered and brought the world crashing down around them and now it was Sam – it always had to be Sam – that was to finish the job. His body was the only one that could house the Devil.

This was where every twist and turn of every road had led to.

_Whatever you do, you will always end up here…_

"Yeah," Dean answered with a smirk. "I know." _And so am I_, he thought with a twitch of his lips.

Sam nodded. "Well, we're burning light, so…" So they skipped breakfast and both grabbed an extra tall, extra caffeinated coffee to go.

Dean slipped behind the wheel while Sam climbed into his side of the Impala, first banging his head and then his knee before finally getting the door shut and his entire body slumping in the seat. Dean curiously wondered if Sam was going to outgrow the old Chevy like he did his Wranglers and his old gray jacket. His eyes slid to the side as Sam sipped on the coffee. First drink, making a face, wetting his lips, second drink downing three Tylenol and two Ibuprofen. Dean hit a pothole and winced as hot liquid piped out of the tiny hole in the cup and spilled onto Sam's hand.

So, not a good day.

The three missing people had oddly lived on the same Rural Route. It wasn't an actual street, more like a dirt road that stretched on and on for miles. There were sparse houses in the area and most were spread apart by cornfields and horse barns, but there was a clustered area of about five or six houses in close proximity to one another. One was the missing woman and her son, another was the missing husband. Each one sat far back from the road in their own little corner of the world. Just far enough where a friendly neighbor waving would have to squint to be able see a reciprocating wave back.

They tried the wife of the missing man first, a Mrs. Drew Hewson. She stood in an open doorway, patted her hands dry on a dish towel and pushed long, blonde locks out of her face, violet colored eyes blinking vacantly back at the 'reporters'. There was a flurry of activity around her, men in uniforms varying from police to forensic investigators. She looked the Winchesters up and down, maybe considering their age, maybe considering asking for credentials but all she did was sigh.

Then invited them in.

"No," Drew answered, cranking a baby swing in the middle of her living room, "he hasn't called. No one has."

"So," Dean pressed, making sure he had the story up to this point, "you say he left around 8pm to go to his friends house and then never returned."

"Right."

"And his friend says he was out of town and never saw him."

She nodded. "Right."

Sam gave Dean a small shrug as he scribbled on an open notepad. Drew walked around them, adjusting the sound on a baby monitor on the end table. The static soon decreased and cooing could be heard through the speaker.

"Twins?" Sam asked after a few seconds.

Drew turned to him. Expressionless. "Yeah. Girls."

Sam smiled. "How old?"

"Four months."

All their eyes fell on the one baby swaying in the swing, passed out from the rhythmic motion of the gentle click-clack. Really didn't seem like much here. A missing family man. Police had found his Camry a few miles up the road. Headed east, towards his friend's house. Just never arrived at his destination.

Maybe the local authorities would do a better job handling this one.

"No, nothing unusual," Drew had confirmed for the third time. No scales were found and Wouldn't that be strange? No teeth discovered and Why would there be? There hadn't been signs of a struggle. They had answered her questions as best as they could and she theirs before they rose from their seats, thanking her, wishing her well in finding her husband and shook her hand. She walked them back to the door and opened it, the fresh Autumn air swooping in like an escape from the humdrum she was living. Her face turned toward the cool and she took in a deep breath. "It would be nice to find him," she inhaled. "If he's alive."

It was all in how she said it. Hopeless and knowing. Both brothers pulled up short and studied her face. No tears throughout the interview, no agonizing of where or who or why. Just blank. Until the breeze hit her. Then she brightened. Worry lines years away.

"You think he's dead?" Sam tried and for that? He got a look from her. Ultraviolet eyes, the size of marbles, which had seen a good nights sleep settled on his and she smiled so hard it turned up into a shaky grin.

"Of course they… are." Her brows lifted but her face hardened and her mouth was as wide as a pirate about to take over her crew. She tripped on the word _they_ and then changed her choice of pronoun. "If he was alive, he'd call by now. Wouldn't he?"

Back to grief or alarm or whatever the fuck this perplexity was.

Still, they were at an open door with law enforcement around and she was showing them out. The crank on the swing had stopped a few minutes before and baby number two was starting to stir. Her attention suddenly diverted back to motherly obligation.

The sun was bright as they stood near the Impala for a long moment, replaying the interview in their mind.

"What do you think?" Sam asked.

Dean hitched a shoulder. "_Rosemary's Baby_?"

Sam shook his head, almost hiding a shudder. "Dude –"

"Mia Farrow – "

"You forced me to watch that movie, Dean."

"It's a great movie. Classic."

"I was five."

"Eh, it was research."

"It gave me nightmares…" and Sam's voice trailed off or back in time or in the here and now and Dean let out a hot breath.

Because Sam had never been free from nightmares. And Dean was scared – he was fearful – that they would march along with him with their shadowy fingers and midnight promises until the end.

No wonder the kid had stopped sleeping.

"Well, she was off, huh?" Dean changed the subject back to the job. Could always talk about the job, kick around theories, bounce first impressions off one another.

Sam gave a terse nod. "For sure."

"Wanna move on to the next one?" Dean suggested, tilting his head up the road a little. Grace and Mickey Reimer's house was up that way and not far next door was their neighbor. The one who claimed he'd found things, had the findings and apparently wasn't handing them over to any eager authorities. "Cops should be pretty busy down here for a while. I bet it's calmer up the street."

Sam nodded, quietly agreeing and they started the walk up the dirt road. Boots crunching on the gravel only caused rocks to scatter and dust to coat their black leather hard tops to a smoky gray. Sam was particularly quiet for such a picturesque walk. Dean had cleared his throat, walked within touching distance. Gave Sam every opportunity to say something of importance, if needed. But Sam just kept on walking, passing Dean on by.

They eased up to a big covered porch of the Reimer's house. There was a group of honey bees on Dean's right buzzing beside him, bouncing from daisy to daffodil, looking to score some pollen to continue on for another week.

He and Sam were kind of the same way. Bouncing and drifting and trying to figure out what they needed to do to keep alive for another week. They were still trying out waters that ran deep and brought in shallow tides. Neither man knew yet what kind of brothers they were going to be. Too much was happening too fast to take the precious time they needed to work out the plan and to put it in motion.

No, they were just figuring it out as they went along. Patching up their relationship as they hunted demons and devils and Paris Hilton. Dean grabbed hold of the railing to the deck as they started up the steps. The boot print on the door was easily visible to him, the door still dangling on one hinge.

Poor little Mickey. He must have been scared to death.

Sam was half a foot ahead of him as they crossed the porch. Dean looked in through the windows, could see the battered furniture, what was left of the tattered curtains. He straightened back up and stole a glance up at his brother.

Maybe it was the bright eyes that were looking back at him. Maybe it was the shift in temperature from cool to arctic. Maybe it was the alarm rolling off of Sam's shoulders. But as his brother pulled out his Glock and pointed it over Dean's shoulder, all Dean could think was _Protect Sam_. And it made him furious that he was the protected.

WWW

It was just a flash of light at first. Sam followed it with his eyes as he turned away from the front door of Gracie Reimer's house. It ducked behind a corner of the porch, almost trying to engage the hunter in a playful game of Hide and Seek. But it was just a flash. His second view of it was much more detailed, but really he only noticed two things: Horns. And they were driving a line shot up the middle towards his brother.

Sam pulled the gun out of his waistband and pointed. He could see the surprise in Dean's face, almost a cringe, but not sure exactly, definitely not taking a second to work through it. He was ready, trying to take his aim as the thing moved fast. Too fast and before Sam could take a shot, it was a light again, falling back behind the porch.

"Dammit!" Sam yelled and shoved past Dean, brushing his brother's shoulder, not paying attention as Dean barked his name, never-minding the sound of boots following him off the deck and into the grass below.

Then he was off like a rocket. Chasing a path in the grass that was puckered and creased, noticing the way the branches swayed up ahead like something was already winning the race. Sam picked up the pace, pushing his long legs up a small hill, probably great for sledding in the winter time, and then down the other side.

"Sam!" he heard Dean call, knew from the tone that he was pissed, knew from the air exchange that he was on the verge of becoming winded.

But, Jesus Christ, that thing was still up there and Sam pushed on further, taking both of them through a back wooded area, the trickle of a creek nearby, when Sam turned. He looked up a muddy mound and saw nothing staring back. He narrowed his eyes straight ahead and saw that the thing had vanished.

He didn't look behind him, though. He knew what was back there and he was catching up rather quickly.

Sam pointed ahead. "I think it disappeared up ahead."

Dean came to an abrupt halt next to him, his hands resting for a few seconds on his knees. "What?" he breathed. "What was it?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. It moved fast up –"

Dean was shaking his head. "I didn't see anything."

"I know. It was too fast."

There was a roll of his head and Dean walked around Sam, his boots sinking into the mud as he did. Sam watched his movements, like he was holding in more than he was letting go. "You sure you saw something, Sam?"

"What –"

"I'm just saying…" Dean's arms opened wide. "I'm just saying you haven't really slept a lot lately."

Sam felt his face pull down. "I'm not hallucinating, Dean." Then he held his stare. Held his stance. Held his breath. Going to bat with Dean sometimes was like pitching against Babe Ruth. No matter what you threw, he was going to take a swing. Sam jabbed his finger, hitting nothing but late morning air. "I saw something and it went that way."

Dean blinked at him and nodded his head. He was agreeing with him without believing him and Sam knew the difference. And it stung.

Sam started stalking ahead, leaving Dean with two choices. Turn and leave or trail behind. He knew, without a doubt, what Dean would do. The talking was what surprised him.

"I ever tell you about the time I was up here?"

Sam's eyes shifted. "Up where?"

"Quad Cities."

Sam felt his mouth tick up. "No." And just like that his mood swung, subsiding from irritation and ebbed toward interest. It was always the surprise of Dean that caught Sam off-guard. Never mind the apocalypse, the supernatural cockroaches walking the earth, the never-ending worry or what tomorrow would bring. This was Dean. And Sam wanted to hear him.

"You were," there was a short pause, "shit, I guess you must've been in Stanford and I don't know where the hell dad was – "

The mention still always hit both of them, just after the amount of time that had passed, the punch was softer somehow.

"People were disappearing back then, too. Just down by the banks of the Mississippi. I drove out, investigated, talked with friends and families. I even charted a boat and took it out, seeing if I could find anything. Thought maybe there was a river monster or a water-logged spirit haunting the place or something."

Yeah, they'd run into a few of those.

"There was a fishing tournament going on. I was passing by a bigger boat and some guy thought he caught a really big fish. Started reeling it in and when it came up, he had snagged one of the missing people."

Sam made a face but didn't say anything.

"Turns out they had all just committed suicide. Just a weird, freaky thing." Another heavy pause. "Happens sometimes. Just because there are people missing, doesn't always mean it's something supernatural."

Sam stopped. Dean wasn't following him because he believed him or because he agreed with him. Dean was following him because Sam was walking in the other direction. He circled around; his arms slapped at his sides and felt the heat flush his cheeks because he knew he deserved this. It was his fault. He betrayed his family in ways he had never been betrayed. He would never know the deep harm that caused. He started the end of civilization. No matter what he did now, he could never make things right. He deserved Dean to question every step he made. He deserved to have Dean turn and walk away from him and leave him alone again. He deserved it.

But all he could think about was why? Why when he deserved all of that why was Dean walking after him? The only question pulling between them like an electric current that he ever truly wanted to ask – Why did Dean keep coming back when Sam kept walking away?

Sam drew a step closer to his brother. He could feel the current run in crooked wires to and fro one another but never knew which direction they were headed anymore. Again, his fault. And he was _sorry_.

"I saw something – " Sam swallowed. He had always been a fucking expert at trusting his instincts. Until his instincts led him to trust Ruby. Now it was all up in the air and Sam couldn't find the strength in his legs to stand. He wanted – he needed – to find where he fit now. Where he fit in saving the world, in finding his redemption, in his own self worth, in Dean's. "And it went that way." He thumbed behind his shoulder and met Dean's eyes.

There was a calmness in the way Dean looked back. Not accusing or disbelieving, just a familiar look. A gaze that held an understanding that warmed Sam and regardless of what Dean felt or thought, he nodded to his brother. "Okay, then. Let's go."

And that was that. They'd always had their arguments, their drag-down-kick-ass fights. No matter what moment in time they had been trapped in, they were always at it. When dad was in the mix, it was worse. Odds weren't as good as evens, but three was always the magic number and no matter how much love was there, buttons were pushed.

So the back and forth bickering was welcomed. For Sam it was a sort of homecoming. One minute they were jiving the next they were dipping in trenches. Either way, it equaled one thing: Family.

"What do you think it is?" Dean asked as they turned and started walking in the direction Sam last saw the horned creature disappear into.

"I don't know," he answered which was only half the truth. He didn't know what it was. Didn't really know what it looked like. But he kind of thought maybe he knew what it wanted.

Sam figured out that the dreams he'd been having – the nightmares he'd been having – weren't visions and they weren't just regular _I had a bad dream_ nightmares. No, these were something of clues. The night before, trying hard to ease himself into a restful slumber Sam found himself back in the black. No one around him but the breath of something big. It was a beast with eyes that glowed orange, breath rancid and hot against his cheeks, pressing marks into his skin. It didn't attack, didn't move. But Sam knew, waking up drenched in sweat, breath ragged, that it wanted him. It needed him.

So fuck it. Sam could be bigger than the bear. Hell, he could do one better. He could drive his ass to the bear's cave and poke it with a stick. Then let it come and get it because he knew that this hunt was a big old bear trap. And he was bait. The disappearances, the killings, whatever they were, they weren't going to stop until it got what it wanted.

Which meant that it was probably one thing and one thing only.

"I saw horns," Sam admitted. "When it was behind you, it was there for a brief moment and it had," his hands made a twisting motion above his head, "horns."

"Horns?" Dean's voice, a bit confused floated to his ears. Sam let him process the vision, let his brother pick different faces and bodies to attach to the undescribed horns. He didn't ask if they were big or small or ivory or black. He just simply said in a _no fucking way_ flat tone, "Sam."

Telling Dean was always on the agenda. Just the _how_ had been a problem because this thing had its own agenda. It was coming full speed ahead to get the permission it was owed. Sam knew what the asking price was and he was going to have to choose his payment plan – the hard way or the easy way. He already had his mind made up. Tucked close to his heart where he could embrace it. Own it.

The mud gained depth then, sinking their boots into the earth further. Sam felt a tug on his jacket and hesitantly turned around. It was always hardest for him talking to the people closest to him in his life. For many, many reasons.

Dean held on to the end of Sam's jacket and Sam's eyes stuck there. Dean not letting go because Dean didn't walk away. He stayed. He felt a rise inside of him, mixed feelings too difficult to decipher until he had to look away.

His sight skated down the embankment, towards the creek. Between dark and light blinders of shivering leaves, Sam could see the outline of what looked like a body.

"Dean." Sam started down the muddy hill, slipping and catching himself on wet rocks, pushing back up until he landed on his knees beside what was left of an eleven-year-old boy. Face down, torso bloated, clothes slashed and torn.

Dean saddled next to him on the other side, hand wide against the child's back. "Shit. Aw, shit." He reached with both hands and with a gulp of air, shoved the body over to its back. The boy's hair was matted, stuck to his forehead. The skin on his face mottled and scratched by what could have been rodents smelling a meal.

That's when Sam saw the cat, laying off-center to the boy's body. Sam blinked, images piecing together not fitting properly, trying to figure out how the hell the tabby had made it out here. It's body was dirty and broken, its matted fur flying off its body like it didn't want to belong to it anymore. It was Dead and Deader.

Sam closed his eyes. _Fuckfuckfuck_.

There was a moment of silence. Everything around them standing still, not moving for once, just quiet, cold, and dead. Dean rocked back onto the heels of his boots and folded his hands and for that long moment, they shared jumpy glances with one another.

Finally, Dean apparently had had enough and he stood, half tapping, half slapping Sam on the back of the head.

"Is something after you?"

Sam huffed, angling his body up to stand next to his brother, hands on his hips. "Jesus, Dean, have we met?"

Dean shifted his weight under him. "I mean, is it here? Do you think it's here?" Panic wouldn't have been an appropriate word for the fluctuation of Dean's voice. It was _concern_, which normally would have pissed Sam off, but underlying the tone Sam could hear something softer: fear.

Sam bit his bottom lip. They would need back-up. Could call Bobby. Worry his ass into an ulcer. Or Cas. Yeah, Cas definitely could be part of the solution. He'd need something that could offer supernatural protection because now that Sam didn't have his powerful powers, he was a bit useless.

_You didn't need the feather to fly. You had it in you the whole time, Dumbo. It always had to be you._

Because it was the Devil that Sam had seen, completed somehow with horns and if his dreams hadn't led him astray – and they had yet to do that – then he knew exactly why it was here now.

It was time to make a switch. Time to trade up.

He lifted tired eyes to Dean's already steeled and glaciered. Ready for a fight. Rule Number One in Crowd Control according to John Winchester: Make them believe you can win. "Yeah, I think so," Sam replied and the tight nod Dean returned squared Sam's shoulders. It was a farce, but he appreciated Dean's effort. Hell, he appreciated _Dean_. Because he didn't have to do this alone. He didn't have to become undone fighting an evil that maybe lived inside of him. Dean was there, he was staring at him like he was ready and that made Sam believe that they could do this. He hadn't started it alone. He didn't have to finish it alone. They'd both fucked up. And, dammit, if they were going to do this, they were going to do it together.

A gurgle from below brought both their attentions back and Sam frowned at the body of the boy as his chest expanded, taking in an impossible deep breath. A twitch of a finger on the right hand – half covered in frayed skin, half skeleton – and then the dead eye-sockets blinked, rolling like lucky number sevens, dark black eyes zeroed in on them. Its face turned up, drawing charcoal colored lips into a wicked smile. And it was horrible.

Then something hit them from the side. Fast like a viper snake but wildebeest solid. Sam could see flashes of Dean. Smashing into the mud with his left arm, his head slamming on a jutted rock. Blood spilling. His body being flipped to his stomach and forcefully held down.

He could hear muffled sounds and realized they were coming from his own throat. He was grabbed from behind, the trees above swirling into a maddening spin art project until his face was plummeted into the earth. There was a swish of a tail in front of him, yellow tabby fur tickling his nose. He tried to speak, to plea, to call for his brother, but the mud was filling his mouth and before he had time to figure out that there was a heavy pressure on his lower spine and the back of his head, he was silenced by one single gunshot.

-TBC-

**Playlist:** _Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me_ performed by U2

**A/N:** Again, thanks for reading and if you take the time to review, thanks so much. There is much more in store for our heroes, regardless if you wear a Dean Patch or a Sam Patch over your heart. Next chapter should be up Thursday-ish.

My cousin actually drowned himself in the Mississippi River. There was a big fishing tournament and his next-door neighbor was participating. Cast his line out and snagged his body. What're the odds of that? I never really got over that visual.


	3. Tramp, Trash, and the Party Girl

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One

**A/N:** This is what kind of a freak I am. In this story, I have made personal challenges to myself. Each chapter has to have the phrase 'Red Light' in it. Each chapter has to have a quote about the devil in it. And, being a music buff, this entire story was inspired by my favorite U2 song. So each chapter has a lyric from one of their songs randomly placed in it. I told you I'm a freak. Oh, and this chapter? Well, this chapter is named after my favorite song and that song is responsible for getting me to this story…

**Thanks:** If I could I'd give you a hug, but since you live an ocean away, I'm sending you something from the SPN Con in Chicago – thanks for having my back, **MAZ101**! Have I told you lately that you rock?

**Chapter Three: Trash, Tramp, and the Party Girl**

He loved the wind. It blew the stray hair out of his eyes forcing them to narrow so he could see better. And, boy, could he see. His eyes caught the movements of everything – the trees, the grass, the hippety-hoppety of the damned little rabbits. His mouth twitched, opening wide and his throat rolled up and down, making short chanting sounds.

He blinked long and slow as his pupils twirled and shrunk in on their sides, until they went elliptical. Now he could see a mile down the road, which was a great thing since his round body was much too fat to run fast. No, he was better at the waiting and the pouncing.

Problem was, there wasn't much of anything moving out here. Not even the rabbits anymore. He'd waited for days for someone to return to his home. He needed to be fed. He'd drunk all the water out of the toilet. His litter box hadn't been changed for so long his poop was hitting the floor. Couldn't cover it up with anything and that was just plain gross. So when nobody showed, he simply pushed the broken door a little and squeezed his body outside.

As morning turned to day and day to night, he noticed there were certain smells that seemed to grow stronger around the house. He started trotting, trying to follow them against the pull and push of the wind and he noticed if he walked way down to where the hills lost their grass and turned to mud it got to be down right pungent. That excited him more than anything. His paws hit the ground harder, hopeful that there was a dead mouse – or better yet – a dead rabbit caught in a branch or drowned in the shallow creek. He'd been there a few times when he was younger. That boy would take walks down there and he'd follow him. Then he got too fat and he found that the only thing the boy did of interest to him anymore was fill up his feed bowl.

Which he hadn't done for a long, long time.

He reached the stream of water flowing gently along the mucky bedrock. He was timid at first, taking one stone at a time, being sure the bottom of his mitts didn't slide. Until the scent filled his nasal cavity with such violence, it was rancid. He dipped his head and looked over a large piece of tree. There. There was the quarry that was stinking up the joint. He jumped ahead and reached the mass of filthy flesh.

The furry dark hair that was swaying in the creek, spanning out like the fins of a bluegill, made the old tabby pull up short. There were patterns that looked oddly familiar to him draping his dinner's body. He lightly raised his right paw, the one he always favored as his 'strong foot', and gently pushed on the shoulder of what he remembered was the boy who pulled him up to a warm bed at night and would sneak him pieces of bologna.

A primitive howl trilled his throat and released into the air. A mantra of chirping followed as he batted at the boy's neck, his hair, nuzzling up near him to get him to _move_. A wrestle under his arm, even a swift hand pushing him away, he was willing to take whatever torment the lad would inflict.

But he just stayed still. And he stunk.

There was a snap behind him. The sound of sticks breaking in half and the cat turned to see a figure coming toward him. He growled and then meowed, not sure if he were fending off another predator or signaling someone for help.

He arched his back and waited as it approached. His body was like a shadow moving away from firelight, hard to focus on, difficult to follow but when he spoke to him, the tabby knew if he was dealing with friend or foe.

"Aw, hi, Kitty-Kitty," he sang to him.

Pointed ears swept back against the old cat's head. Short breaths, inhaling a scent he wasn't familiar with but that screamed to him of evil and death and suddenly the kitty wasn't so sure this he was a _he_. With cat-like-reflexes, claws retracted out of the protection of their hiding spaces and he leapt at the thing, nails can-opener sharp, ready to inflict damage.

One clean grip of the back of his neck, though, and the tabby knew he was in trouble.

"Gotta little Cat Scratch Fever, do you?" The thing tsked at him and brought the cat up close, looked deep in his eyes and saw the thirteen years the feline had lived in comfort and safety and love.

_Whiskey_, the cat thought he heard, a loud whisper from a lifetime before, blowing the delicate skin on his inner ear. It made him twitch.

"Don't you know, you little devil," the thing teased as Whiskey Joe swung in a frozen state, "that curiosity killed the cat?"

The tabby's spine crunching in the thing's hands was excruciating but being thrown up in the air, not knowing where or when he was going to land was awful. Good thing he never lived long enough to hit the ground.

WWW

At first, Dean thought he felt pretty good. She was a beauty, so full of life, her eyes dancing, her smile gleaming… and then he realized, he must be dreaming.

_What the hell? Dean's hands were outstretched, palms up, full of breasts. She was smiling at him, grinning almost, teeth neon compared to her darkened lips. He couldn't tell if it was natural or lipstick, he wanted to look but she had him snared in her stare. Deep dark eyes round as the moon gazing at him. Through him. Seeing more than his skin, his hair. And then she tried to talk but instead she gurgled, blood gushing out of the base of her throat. _

_They were in the open. Sort of. Dean glanced around quickly. It was a small space… a phone booth, maybe with a harsh red light flanking her body. Didn't matter much. Everything on her was covered in red now. _

_He looked down at his hands. Her boobs were extra-large. He'd had a few DD's in his past, but these trumped those easily. G's maybe? Did they even get that big? They were dark in color with darker nipples. He glanced back up. African-American girl, early twenties. She tried again to say something but only her mouth moved and she was drowning in her own blood. _

Dean awoke to a darkened room.

It was his eyelashes he felt first, skipping lightly against his cheeks. Fluttering into mere slits, showing more of his surroundings. He was sitting in a chair. Hard on his ass, digging into his shoulders. Hands… he wiggled his fingers. Hands bound behind his back. He tried to run his tongue against his teeth but it was blocked. There was a gag of some sort stuffed in his mouth, secured tightly with duct tape.

He opened his eyes a little more. A bare light bulb dimly swung back and forth. It was dizzying and there was music, but it was from a distance, maybe upstairs. He could hear the bluesy-riffs of ZZ Top. _Sharp Dressed_… no, _Tube Snake Boogie_. Good song.

Then he felt the pain – or he probably always felt it – but now it became clearer to him. It began in his head, swam sharply and abruptly down his right shoulder, through his abdomen until it electrified his legs, which he tried to twist and realized they were snug tight to the chair.

"Hey, stranger," a thin voice came from the corner. Dean stilled, felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his temple, quickly blinked and tried to breathe at the same time, the duct tape moistly suffocating over his lips.

A click of a gun being cocked brought the hunter – or hunted, as it would be – back to his senses and Dean suddenly remembered the sound of a gunshot before being knocked out. He squirmed purposefully in the chair. There was so much pain but he didn't think it was him that had a bullet hole inside him. _Sam_. His eyes swept the small room quickly. Basement surroundings. Not a lot of room for much down here. Certainly not a 6'4" brother.

"Who you looking for?" Same voice, sounded female. Unsettling in a way that was almost threatening. Definitely mocking.

Dean waited. Couldn't do anything else, could he? Tied up, taped up, wasn't his move to play just yet.

Besides his captor was already maneuvering her body closer to his. She stood up, flowing like a giraffe to her full height, probably over six feet, Dean guesstimated. Taller than him, for sure. She sauntered away from the corner chair and continued her straight-line runway stroll towards him. The room was darkened with shadows, long skinny fingers hanging on to the walls and as she came forward, he swore they shrank back. Only wanting to observe, not wanting to touch and Dean quietly wondered where the fuck his brother was.

_I know a girl who lives on the hill/She won't do it but her sister will…_

Goddammit, he liked that song. Now it was forever ruined.

The girl made a sound that caused Dean to glance up or become more alert, he was sure he had never looked away but the gag in his mouth was stifling. Everything was so _hot_ down here and it was obviously a cellar or a basement and he knew they were mostly kept cool.

It was a whip that had made the noise, he discerned. She had it strapped tightly to the belt of her shorts and when she moved, its tassels swished like mini-pom-poms. Dean was unsure if the weapon was for business or pleasure.

Still, he met her gaze. It was hard to say what color her eyes were or the shape of them even, the light bulb was casting an odd outline over her face that acted like a shutter. Her dark brown hair was short, though. Razor-cut short sliced into punky angles and spiky sprouts. But her face was delicate, high cheekbones with small chin that jutted out to a soft point. Kissable, had the circumstances been different.

There were a couple of things that he noted to be of particular importance. The first being she knew how to handle the shotgun. She wasn't a professional hunter, strike that right away. She didn't have her hands in the right position, she didn't carry it high or low or even at her middle. No, she carried it like a mother would her infant. Cradled it against her, kept it close to her bosom, loved it. She'd know how to take aim and when she did, she'd plan on taking whatever – whoever's – fucking head off with it.

The other thing he noticed was the way she moved, the way she looked seemed human. Which really sucked because they were always crazy and Sam never wanted to kill them. Well, Dean didn't ever really want to kill them, either, but Sam and his morals –

_Sam_.

The gun was being brought around and the dark-haired lady tipped the barrel low as she approached, kept it forward now until it hit something solid. Dean's chest. It was a steady hold and Dean sat perfectly still, didn't even bother looking down at the end of the gun. Just kept his eyes up, trained on her. Watched for where her weakness was. Tried to see more of her face, get his read on her. All he was really successful at, however, was seeing more of what she was wearing: ragged boy-cut shorts – plaid – and a T-shirt that was torn off the left shoulder. It was tight fitting to her small chest, black or navy blue, and in white block letters proudly proclaimed she was a 'Party Girl'.

_Yeah, I bet_, he thought, wondering about her choice of party favors.

She pressed the gun in a little, like he should be scared of it or just in case maybe he forgot who was in charge.

He could see her eyebrows bunch together over the bridge of her nose. Bushy unibrow, badly needing attention.

"Feeling frisky?" she asked, voice delightfully taunting him.

_Oh, we're gonna play it that way, huh? Come and get it._ Dean tracked her stare, eyes pinned on hers. Couldn't speak. Couldn't move. _Fine. Read 'fuck you' right here on my face, bitch._

"Oh, you are," she said, sounding prickly.

_Don't look away,_ he reminded himself. _It's a game. She wants to win and if you look away, you lose._

He kept his eyes glared straight ahead, green and cold and shooting laser beams at her. He felt the roll of sweat run faster on his back, wondered for a second if it was actually blood, but decided it was sweat. Either way, it was chasing bead after bead in a race down his scapula.

Party Girl took a step back and put her left hand on her hip, right hand still fondling the gun as she watched him a long moment. It was the not saying anything, he realized, that was of most importance, of most interest to her. It turned her on.

"I just can't seem to make my mind up," she went on, lanky body swaying left and right, "which one of you I like better."

Dean felt his eyes sharpen. Knew his pupils dilated and goddammit, he tried hard not to show it. He erased it from his face as soon as it was there but that was the problem – it was already there. And spoke loud and clear.

"Of course, the other one…" she shrugged, made a reference to her shoulder, "he's kinda got a bullet stuck in him right now –"

"Sonuvabitch," Dean grumbled. His voice traveled into the gag, through the duct tape, and reached the air garbled.

He had hoped in the heat of his anger that the point would get across. That she would back up, feel threatened by the man bound to the chair. That she would sense the threat in his body language. _When I get loose, I'm gonna tear you limb from limb…_

It was something else, though, that he saw there and what he saw made his stomach clench: triumph.

Tapping her finger against her lips, she made a decision in front of him then. "I think it's time for you join the party." An announcement, gleeful and jubilant, like they were going to attend a ball.

Dean's eyes constricted. God, he was hot. Sweat pooled under his armpits now. He blinked, realized it was done in effort to keep the salty moisture from dripping into his eyes.

She started walking again, this time to the beaten up staircase. It was the same strange saunter from before. She moved in a disjointed rhythm, her scrawny hips stretching her milky skin against hard angles. She looked like she was in pain as she turned, all bones and sticks rubbing together until they made enough heat to get this thing to _move_.

It felt wrong and Dean knew she was wildly peculiar. Not just the weird-hillbilly-odd-duck-strange they'd dealt with in the past. She was off-kilter. The whole thing was.

She disappeared into the unknown of the upstairs, slamming the door behind her, leaving Dean to reassess his situation. He moved forward as far as he could go, feeling the give of the ropes keeping him attached to the chair. Pretty damn tight. He moved his arms up and down, his hands staying in place… couldn't see what was binding them, but if he had to guess, he'd go with plastic. And his feet, he shifted them as well, and noticed for the first time that the heels of his feet were planted on cement. _Shit_, Dean thought. He was barefoot. Those sons of bitches had his socks, had his boots. His knives. His guns.

The music from above was still roaring along. Oldies, classic, but not rock. Mostly. Hell, he couldn't tell. Sometimes it was clear and other times it was just a vibration through the floorboards, but he could hear something different now as he wet his tongue and tried to run it along his teeth. It was hard with the thick gag there. He tried not to think of what the hell it could be.

There was a rumbly exchange directly above him. He could hear the sound of a woman – Party Girl, he suspected – and a distinct baritone arguing back with her. Quick motion, heavy thumps, feet scampering like they were trying to catch a stray dog up there, and then the door to the basement was opening again and Dean could see two Good Ol' Boys drop their sorry asses into the small confines of the cellar.

Despite the plastic ties, Dean could feel his fingers curl into fists. Automatic reaction. Here came the linebackers and Dean had no offense prepared. Large hands reached for him, one grabbing his right shoulder, another grabbing the back of the chair.

He made a sound from behind the gag. Fuck it wasn't comprehensible and even if it was, he doubted these dimwits would be able to understand him. He felt his feet lift from the cement floor and he started paddling. Even that required too much energy. He wiggled his body, caused the chair to shake in their arms and he heard the one on the right of him comment to the other, "Sure is wormy."

"Hold up," came the response and just as Dean was glancing over, he felt the chair tilt back.

He made another sound, this one more deadly, followed by an obscenity and then he was upside down and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were holding onto the legs of the chair and dragging it – Dean's body firmly attached – up the remainder of the stairs.

His head slammed against the stairs as they went up and up. He tried to pull his neck away from his chest to lessen each blow but it was in vain. First step – smack. Second step – crack. By the third step, Dean had held his breath and he couldn't remember what kind of sound his head made, but he could feel the blood ooze into his hair.

Then he was spinning and thought about puking along with it. Let them clean that up, but realized they wouldn't and then he'd have to sit with the vomit on him so he gulped it down as the legs of the chair settled back on the floor. His bare feet rubbed against hardwood. It was warmer and Jesus Christ, he was already so freaking hot.

The movement had stopped. He was still as a tree, but he could still hear the bang of head against timber. Smickety-Smacks and Thumpity-Thumps and a smothered moan and oh, God, it wasn't his imagination. And it wasn't him. It was Sam.

Dean's eyes widened as two brutes dragged his brother into the same room to apparently join the party. It was hard to evaluate the extent of Sam's injuries while being bound to the chair. No hands-on contact, no questions to be answered. All he had was what he could see.

The first thing Dean noticed was the sweat pouring off of Sam. The dudes – big and brawny – pulled the chair over so that it was next to Dean. Side glances, nothing lasting over three seconds. Sam was bloody. Beaten-bloody. He looked for a wound – shoulder, back – flesh torn, exposed like a side of beef. Sam had chills. More blood. There was the gag. The binding. No fucking boots.

Sam stared straight ahead. Dean could see his eyes following the players in the room in between the glimpses of assessment. It was a smart move, Sam not checking on his brother, watching the enemy, but Dean needed to see – just for a brief second – that his brother was okay. That he wasn't beat-down or crushed or God-forbid scared. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time Dean looked his way that he caught Sam glancing back. A tick of his right eyelid and Dean got it: _Straight ahead, dude. Don't let them see you sweat._

Or something along those lines. Dean felt the muscles in his back ease a little. _Boundaries, Dean_, he told himself. Because he wasn't responsible for Sam and, yet, he was.

There was a flurry of activity around them. A table was being moved out of the room and a couple of extra straight chairs were being brought in. There were four guys, all huge, and the chick – who, in her freakishly tall frame – was also quite large.

The music was still playing – an old Otis Redding song – and Dean found himself moving forward in his head. Who were these dumbshits and why the hell had they taken them? What were their plans for them and how the fuck were he and Sam going to get out of here? And then come back and burn the house down.

One of the guys – not one of the Tweedle's that had been with Dean – suddenly emerged from the group. He was heavily tattooed, arms grossly thin like cable wires, his swagger cocky like he owned the joint and Dean figured he probably did. He hauled up one of the chairs and turned it around so he was straddling it and placed it in front of Sam.

Dean didn't like the way this was sizing up.

The guy cleared his throat, caught a large piece of phlegm, and worked his Adam's apple as he brought it up, rolling the snot in his mouth for a few seconds before expelling it.

He spit straight ahead. Landed right on Sam's face. Dean's body surged forward as he saw Sam's flinch back.

"Now," the guy started, "why don't you tell me what you were doing outside of the Reimer's place?"

_Is he serious?_ Dean scowled. How the hell were they suppose to –

"You know the Reimer's?"

Sam did nothing. No nod, no shake. The guy looked over at Dean. He stuck to Sam's plan.

"You know Gracie?"

Again nothing and now the guy shifted his weight.

"You fuck her?"

He was staring directly at Sam then and if Sam reacted to that, Dean couldn't see it, but the next question was harsher, murderous. "You some kind of… hero?"

Dean noticed out of his periphery that Sam's throat bobbed. A swallow. Shit.

The dude nodded. "Okay," he went on, almost seemed to get distracted in his own thought process for a minute and then said with a shark-toothed smile, "My name is Tramp." He thumbed behind him. "Back there's a coupla buddies of mine. Over there's my brother. His name is Trash." He leaned in, well over the back of the chair he was sitting on and pointed to his left. "And that's my sister, Party."

Dean didn't want to follow with the introductions, but he couldn't help himself. Two buddies, two brothers, and a sister. There were effed up kids and then there were effed up kids. And Dean and Sam were there because they were what? Trespassing?

"Now which of you can I trust to talk?" he offered up, like it was gift.

Maybe it was Sam's stare, his eyes too dead to pinpoint a response, whatever the case, the guy reached across ever so slowly, playing with the younger brother with, "Him? Yeah, this one?" As he leaned over and pulled at the duct tape slower than a snail's pace off Dean's mouth.

It stung his eyes, the tape pulled on stubble, plucked at skin. It was also just half the battle because there was still something stuffed in there and Dean was not going to give in to their satisfaction and spit it out.

Party Girl was making her way to him again.

"My sister, she kind of likes what she's seeing with all that," the guy waved his hands in Dean's direction. "Thinks you're the shit."

Dean looked up – and up a little more – as Party stopped in front of him.

"Why don't you go ahead and take that sock out of his mouth," Tramp said.

Dean shuddered. A sock? His sock? His freaking sock that he had worn that day? Through the chase after a light that wasn't even there? Through mud and a creek and – had he even washed it from the day before?

He dismissed the thought, though, as Party bent down to him, her long neck stretching until her lips were on his, her teeth invading him like dental instruments as she chomped down on a soggy end of the sock and pulled gently back, the gag now in her mouth as she happily sucked out the saliva.

Leaving Dean with a numb feeling through his oral cavity, his tongue thick, tasting dry cotton, needing a drink of water, knowing there was no way he was going to get one unless he took it himself.

"I think Party wants a dance," Tramp piped up.

"Screw you," Dean snapped back but the words felt like wild honey was coating each one.

The dude laughed and it was chilling, almost malicious as Dean looked up, watched the guy push away from the chair, pulling it back with him. He circled around and shook his head. "You're not my type."

Dean nodded, felt his fingers curl in his hands again. Could hear the crowd cheering in his head: _Defense!Defense!_

A tilt to the head and the dude was gesturing to Sam. "Now him? Yeah…" A lick of the lips and Dean stalled in his seat.

It was overwhelming the thoughts in his head. Maybe it was all the blows he'd sustained or maybe it was a loss of blood. But, still he asked, "What?"

The guy was trained on Sam, though, and Dean could have been anyone. "They call me Trampoline," he announced to Sam. Dean heard his brother inhale a shaky breath in through the nose and out. The guy took a step toward Sam and there was no hiding the wink he gave him. "I bet you know what I mean."

WWW

_Hmmm… S'mores…_

There was a time when Sam had asked to go camping as a kid. Dad had finally obliged, they borrowed a tent and headed out into some desolated woods. They had built a small campfire, roasted hotdogs and told ghost stories – well, they were stories they had actually _lived_, but they were ghost stories. Sam had stayed up way into the night, watching as Dad and Dean stoked the fire to keep it going. At one point, Dad whispered to his brother that they should take shifts, keep watch incase 'it' came back. Dean was nodding, his movements looking slower to Sam next to the glow of the fire.

"You about done with that?" Dad asked and Sam looked down. His fingers were gripped around graham crackers and dripping from the sides was a chocolaty-marshmallow goodness.

Sam nodded and stuffed it in his mouth. He was eight. Last time he'd eaten S'mores.

Sam's eyes narrowed, deep frown lines bringing him into the present. His mouth salivated. They hadn't gone camping, he reminded himself as he came away from the haze, they had been hunting. Big difference. But the smell of S'mores was still in the air and as he opened his eyes, he could see he was in a bedroom and that there was a small fire going in the middle of the floor. Two husky guys sat crouched around it, long sticks grasped in their hands and they were lighting marshmallows on fire until they burned and then they pressed them between two graham crackers and chocolate.

Okay. Odd.

He registered the pain right away. Or, maybe it was a burn. It was hard to tell. His eyes glanced down to his chest and he could see an ice pack wrapped around his shoulder, draping down his back and that's where the – shit – that's where the pain was. He wanted the damned pack off his skin, it was freezing and sooner or later cold against skin would burn.

But Sam didn't move, he just watched the burly guys as they giggled in delight at how the S'mores tasted and one saying to the other how long it had been since he had eaten. Not ate S'mores. Just ate. They moved out of rhythm with one another, one almost fighting the other for the last graham cracker. The bigger one got it first and held a palm up to the smaller one (who could still trump Sam) and then licked both sides, laughing at his lame pilfering skills.

They weren't human, Sam decided right away. Not sure what they were just yet, but they sure as shit weren't human.

He felt a tickle in the back of his throat and tried not to cough, his tongue rubbing harshly against the gag stuck in his mouth. He pressed harder. Cotton. Balled up. He wiggled his toes. Bare foot. _Goddammit! They stuffed my sock in my mouth! _He blinked a few times, trying to let his anger not get the best of him.

It was then that they noticed he was awake. Watching them. It was then that he heard the growl from the base of the big guys throat as he stood and approached Sam, still bound to the chair. The smaller dude came in quickly on the right, his big paw reaching for Sam until he knocked the ice pack off and placed a warm hand around him instead. For an instant, the temperature change felt like heaven until the guys fingers dug into flesh sending a shockwave throughout Sam's body, his back arching away. But the big guy righted him again with a meaty left hook.

Sam blinked rapidly, stars and stripes dazzling across his field of vision. He couldn't take in a deep enough breath. The fucking pain from his shoulder, the asshole – the big guy – lined himself in front of Sam and grinned.

"I see your soul," he teased. "And it's as black as the devil."

They were messing with him, he knew, trying to do what damage they could, trying to keep him down, keep him weak. He took another couple of hits, tried to suck in breaths, suck in his pride but when they heard the girl yelling at them from down the stairs, Sam couldn't help but be silently thrilled that they had stopped hitting him.

His chair being tipped over and his ride down the bumpy stairs wasn't quite what he had in mind for a break from the beating.

Seeing Dean, though… Sam swallowed hard. He only looked once before the chair was turning around and he was next to him. Seeing Dean hurt in its own way that almost caused more pain than the cold ice pack or the fingers jabbing into his wound. Dean looked okay. There was some blood, but he was okay. He could feel the sideway glances from his brother, but Sam kept his eyes straight ahead. He only allowed himself one more quick look, brows furrowed in irritation, more than anything, back to his brother – _Keep your cool. Let's get the hell outta here._

Dean seemed to get the message because he stopped looking and started paying attention. There was a change of the guard, some tall tattooed guy walked up, dragged a chair in and sat his ass down smack in front of Sam. _Yeah, fucker, go ahead and get a good look_, Sam smirked to himself. The guy went on, asking questions about why the Winchesters were hanging out at the Reimer's place, like that was the important question flashing in neon that needed to be answered. But then it got personal, "You fuck her?" Sam blinked. They guy – or whatever it was – was talking about Gracie like she was a whore, a piece of shit prostitute. "You some kind of… hero?" Sam didn't know what or where this was going but one thing was for sure: the guy seemed territorial. Sam wasn't Gracie's hero, but a hero to others? Yeah, he'd been that. But it was confusing and he didn't want to give anything away.

The next thing he knew, he swallowed. And tattoo guy was pulling the duct tape off Dean's mouth and teasing him about how his sister wanted a dance. Introductions all around and then Dean was shooting off his mouth and the guy wasn't shutting up, either, adding in a "You're not my type." Then the guy was eyeballing the shit out of Sam, licking his lips, moving his hips. "They call me Trampoline," he said, seductively with a wink. "I bet you know what I mean."

Sam didn't look at Dean. He stared at Tramp. If he could, he would have told the asshole where to go. If he could, he would have showed the dickwad the quickest way out of the house – through the window. But he couldn't. All he could do was sit and stare and let the rage and fumes penetrate through his eyes.

Unfortunately, Tramp held a darkness about him. He didn't seem to mind the seething, he electrified from it. Another wink and a wiggle in Sam's direction and he was waving Party Girl over towards Dean.

"You're gonna dance with my sister now," Tramp said, amusing the small crowd.

"The hell I am!" Dean snarled back but the guns thrust in his face and at Sam's back were enough to shut him up.

"You want to watch your brother eat lead?" Tramp asked. "Now we picked you guys up out of a wet creek and brought you here," his arms spread apart, "To a warm, dry place." His finger went up, like he was hushing them. "Now it took some effort to get you guys in the truck and bring you all the way here… I'd think you'd be more grateful." He gestured to his sister. "You've been asked to have this dance. I assume you accept."

Dean didn't answer and he certainly didn't agree to the dance but he didn't fight it, either. Party took that as an open invitation.

Sam watched as the burly guys huddled around Dean, switchblades open, cutting at the plastic ties that bound his hands and feet, slicing the rope. And then Dean was loose, standing on his own free will. Sam was finally able to get a fresh, good look at his brother. Dean turned half way around, catching Sam's eyes and Sam tried hard not to show Dean how rattled he really was.

Dean gave a small nod. He knew.

"Hey," came the only female voice in the joint. Sam's eyes shifted to Party. Jesus, she was tall. Taller than Dean, that was for sure. Maybe 6'3" or so. She reached out to him, thin long hands engulfing Dean's as she pulled him away from the chair and into the center of the living room. She smiled at him, but it was for both brothers, and it was wolfish.

There was nothing then. It was as if the noise from the house was sucked out and all that was heard was bare feet slapping on cold wood planks. Dean being led by his dance partner. He cleared his throat. Sam wondered what he was contemplating, but whatever it was, it was pointless. Two guns dogged on Dean, one on Sam.

Tramp took the opportunity to sit down in the open chair, hands laying lax on his knee, coming dangerously close to touching Sam's. For one brief moment, the room swirled, the earth tipping the wrong way on its axis and Sam felt his back twang, reverberating heat across his muscles. He swallowed the bile that rose from his gut. Everything ached.

The music started up as if on queue. A quick beat, a symphonic guitar and then smooth vocals swayed into the room. _Hold on tight to your dream…_

Sam watched through a sweaty brow as Party Girl stepped into Dean's personal space one hand sliding behind his waist, grabbing his lower back, tugging him closer and Dean – Sam gulped – Dean moved closer, his right leg starting to bounce, his left hand reaching for her hip.

_When you see your ship go sailing/When you feel your heart is breaking/Hold on tight to your dream…_

Sam could see Dean's shoulders curl forward, he noticed Party coming in closer an inch, her hip reaching his so he had to move his hand to her back and then he just held there, one body smashed against the other, moving as one to the pulse of the music.

Party let her shoulders roll to the beat and her right hand came up momentarily to dramatically fan herself. This caused a dizzying roar from the men standing in the room, their faces sneeringly, delightfully watching the two dance in the center like it was their own private sex show. Then Tramp made a sinister sound. Something quiet just for Sam's ears, but it was black and callous and his hand spread open, coiling solid around Sam's thigh like the jaws of a steel bear trap.

_Shit_, Sam thought, _maybe this was a private sex show_.

They had reached the part of the song where it was all French and the two burly guys tried to mutter it out, singing off key and not knowing a word of French anyways. Sam was trying to keep up, ignore the lurching of his stomach, the pain from the bullet lodged in his back but Tramp's fingers tightened with intensity and Sam felt his heart skip and then speed up. Everything was pounding, crashing like waves against his bones.

It was then that he saw the swish of a tail coming from the next room. There wasn't much to see back there, maybe it was a kitchen, he wasn't sure, but he could see the matted fur of a tabby cat's dirty tail and Sam felt the sweat kick in under his armpits. He hadn't dreamed it. He had seen the tail of a cat right before he was knocked out – or shot or both – back at the creek. He wasn't hallucinating. Fucking cat was dead and brought back to life or –

Dean spun Party Girl. He grabbed her slim fingers, eased her right up to his chest and then pushed out, her body twirling under his raised arm and back again, just like a pro and Sam had really thought he had known most of Dean's tricks. Still, he seemed to spin right along with them, his head rotating faster and faster and he had to swallow the rise in his throat again.

_When you see the shadow falling/When you hear that cold wind calling/Hold on tight to your dream…_

Tramp started clapping, followed by his brother and soon the other two joined in as the music died. Party bowed and curtsied, apparently not sure which role she wished to play.

Dean backed away fast. Couldn't get away fast enough, Sam presumed. He could tell Dean was scouting the exits again. Sam had made the sweep, too. One window off to their left, small and closed. The doorway ahead, leading to the room with the reborn-again-cat and a door behind them. It was wooden with a small window carved out. Could see the pale yellow of the moon peeking through. It most definitely led outside.

Sam wanted Dean to take it. Take his chance and get the hell out of there. He could find Cas, call Bobby, whatever he needed to do and then come back and get Sam. Which, considering they didn't really know where they were and that their host seemed to have a thing for him, made Sam a little nervous.

Of course, Tramp and his crew were busy giving their congratulations to the _So You Think You Can Dance _winner and Dean locked eyes with his brother. Sam could feel the strings pull without Dean saying a word. It was now or never and Dean had to act fast – faster than a cat – to free Sam and then fight their way out of there.

Sam shook his head but Dean was already next to him, one hand laid gently on his bad shoulder, assessing and plotting, two flicks of Dean's eyes up to Sam's and then he was being dragged away. Sam struggled against the ropes, following as the two burly guys threw Dean against the wall, each with iron fists to Dean's gut, a crack across his jaw.

Dean curled in on himself, gaze falling to the ground, long strings of blood dripping along with it.

"Now, did I say you could do that?" Tramp asked, sidling next to Sam, words centered on Dean. "I didn't, did I? Don't…" he wagged a finger at the older brother, "Don't talk to him. Don't look at him. Don't breathe on him."

Dean raised his head, arctic green rays shooting out from bloody lids, glaring across the room. "Fuck. You."

Sam felt his heart sink and expand at the same time. It was a rush, causing his head to spin again. Everything dipping dangerously to the left and then the right. Nothing in focus, nothing making sense. Except his brother.

Trash, however, had eased up behind Dean, gun still pointed on him, like a faithful German Shorthair, nestling it in the small of his back. Dean's hands raised slightly as the barrel dug deeper and Sam watched with a plummeting sensation deep in his gut as the guy ordered Dean to his knees.

Sam swiveled then, found that the adrenaline pumping in his body was able to let him move some. He looked to Tramp, still sitting next to him, hand wrapped securely around his thigh, rubbing abrasively now – higher and higher – and Sam finally had no choice, he made a muffled sound. It wasn't a grunt or a growl. It was a plea and Tramp put up his other hand, palm out, signaling Trash to wait.

Tramp's eyes slid over to meet Sam's and he stared hard at the hunter. Sam stared back. Harder. It was difficult to hold the balance when he was so angry and desperate and when he wanted them all dead. When he wanted to kill them all with his own hands and Sam found that carrying the plea with this fuckface was hard to commit to.

"Lay him out," Tramp ordered.

Sam didn't look over, he just stared at his captor, a tattoo of the Roadrunner speeding across his left forearm and above that an anvil dropping, sure as shit was going to miss it. Roadrunner was too fast. Out of his periphery, he could see flashes of Dean and he could hear everything. Dean was forced down to the floor, on his belly, arms above his head, fingers splayed, legs spread.

"Don't even breathe!" Trash shouted, gun steady.

"Sam –"

And, "What the hell did I just say?" The gun being cocked and Sam nodded at Tramp, softened his eyes and nodded again with need, passion, hopelessness, and love.

"Hold," Tramp ordered. It was quiet for a few heartbeats while Sam zoned in to Dean's shallow breathing. It almost sounded like Dean was trying to laugh at times, like he wasn't scared and that they hadn't bested him, but Sam knew it was just for show and that Dean really just couldn't get enough air in his lungs.

Tramp reached over and peeled the duct tape off Sam's mouth. Sam couldn't wait for the sock to be dislodged and spat it out before anyone was able to reach in and remove it. Sam took in a deep breath, felt like the first real breath he had been able to take all night and followed the expulsion of the sock with, "Let him go."

Which must have been real fucking funny because the whole room erupted with laughter.

"Oh," Tramp sat still, kept his right hand on Sam's thigh just below his groin, and waved his left hand dismissively. "We'll let him go. We just wanted to have a little fun with him first." He glanced down at Dean and smiled.

Sam allowed himself a look, too. Dean's head was turned to the side, blood everywhere, Trash's foot pressed against his cheek, forcing him to look directly at Tramp. But he didn't, his eyes were fastened on Sam instead. Sam felt his lip tick, his mouth turn up for an instant before the tabby leapt between the brothers, howling and hissing and Sam could see Dean's body jerk back, regardless of the pressure from above.

"Goddamn!" Tramp yelled, pointing to the cat. "Get him out of here!"

One of the burly guys tried to reach down and grab the cat, but it swatted a clawed foot at him and hissed again. Its body backed away quickly, still trapped in the middle of the brothers and it blinked its eyes, liquid black filling the round shaped sockets.

Trusting his instincts, trusting everything John and Dean Winchester had taught him, Sam made a leap of faith in one small whisper, "Christo." And the room lit up with darkened eyes, black with thirst or hunger or just a desire to kill. Takeover, as it would be. There were slurpy gasps, pairs of hands curling forward as though they were felines themselves.

Tramp recovered first, his fingers trying desperately to get the duct tape over Sam's mouth again.

He squirmed away from the demon's big hands, eyes darting to Dean, who was wiggling back and forth, trying to loosen the hold from above.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, feeling his pulse suddenly beating at the roof of his mouth. "Go!"

It would take a stick of dynamite, a blazing inferno to get his brother to leave without him, he knew. And even then, Dean would grab Sam and carry him out kicking and screaming through the front door.

_We're all we got._

There was a spark off to Sam's right, a light speeding by so fast that Sam had to concentrate on it for a second to be sure it was real. It flowed like a feather, graceful and delicate, like it breathed a life of its own. Sam thought it probably did. It shimmied its way up to Dean and teased a soft glow around his face, pressing itself against his forehead, caressing its way down his cheekbone.

"Dean," Sam warned, "watch out – "

Dean looked over at Sam, the light directly in front of him and Sam saw that Dean didn't even notice it. He looked right through it, eyes narrowed in confusion, blankly glimpsing at Sam.

Tramp took the opportunity of the finally still, shell-shocked Sam to slap the duct tape back over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up." Tramp mumbled and stood, walking to Dean and slamming his booted foot into Dean's side. "You, too."

He turned away, running his hands through his greasy hair as Dean sputtered below him. Sam felt his own body surge forward, but with the exception of the sock, he was back to where he started and Dean wasn't fairing much better.

"You goddamn cocksuckers!" Tramp started again, twirling around. His eyes were back to normal, dark brown and owl-wide. He shook his head vehemently and looked at the white light that was lingering in the air. Sam's gaze followed Tramp's and the tattooed arms slapped at his sides. "You said I'd hit pay dirt," Tramp spat out. "You didn't tell me they were two damaged halves of a fucked-up whole."

He seemed to be listening to the light and maybe Sam saw it flicker a little, but he certainly didn't hear anything. With the exception of the wheezy pants from Dean.

Whatever was said back, Tramp let his head fall down, contemplating or ashamed. He walked around the living room, retracing steps Party and Dean had danced to and finally looked up. "Okay," he agreed and then turned to Trash. "Get him outta here."

Sam kept his eyes on Dean as they widened with anticipation. Trash brought the bottom of the gun up and smashed it hard across Dean's temple. One crack against the floorboards and Dean's eyes were closed again, out like a light.

Sam was screaming into the duct tape, didn't even realize it until the tape loosened part way and the noise was released into the small room. Tramp slapped a hand over Sam's mouth again, adding more tape. "Shut-up," he sneered again.

The burly guys had their hands under Dean's arms and were dragging him away and Sam felt his body slump against the back of the chair. The light maneuvered its way up to his face and floated there, getting a nice long look before a smile spread across its center. But it was a bleak and twisted thing.

Sam closed his eyes. He was so tired, so thrashed. The last thing he wanted to do was dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.

-TBC-

**Playlist:**

_Tube Snake Boogie_ performed by ZZ Top

_Hold on Tight to Your Dreams_ performed by ELO

**A/N:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing. And Chapter Four? Well, remember I did say this fic was dark, right? It should be up around Saturday-ish.


	4. Road Still Open

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One.

**A/N:** Okay, you quiet people. If you can make it through the first part of this chapter, you can make it through the rest of the story. I'm changing the rating on this to 'M' at the urging of my mighty beta **MAZ101**. I think she had to breathe a little after she read it through. It is a hard chapter. Many questions will be answered, though, and hopefully for the most part, you'll enjoy. In a sick way.

**AGAIN:** For Mature Audiences Only...

**Chapter Four: Road Still Open**

Pretty wasn't a word she would have ever used to describe herself. In fact, it was just the opposite. Her lips were too big, her body was too skinny, her neck was way too long, and her hair was always trying to curl into a frizzy-afro mess. She tried different brushes and combs, different hair care products, different cuts. Always ended up the same way. Frizzy.

So she cut it off. Buzzed it down to tight curls, looked like miniature bows all over the top of her head. And for some reason it was a real crowd pleaser at the club. One dollar turned into five, which turned into ten within a matter of days. And when she bought the bikini with the stars and stripes splattered across the top and bottom, her boobs were barely contained. Double F's came in handy to pay the rent sometimes. Even if the twenty's were a little sticky as she counted them out.

She hated working at joints like these. But she'd dropped out of school when she was sixteen, packed her bags and left home the day after. Her mom had called her the kind of names that she hoped she'd never hear again. Actually, hoped she'd never see her mom again as the door slammed behind her.

She was optimistic, though. She believed. When one door closes, a window opens.

She just never knew the window was going to be so dirty. It was called _the Booby Trap_ and the guys who owned the joint were brothers – called themselves Tramp and Trash. Like those were their real names. They looked her up and down and told her something she had never heard before: She was beautiful. Not ugly. Not skinny. Not too big lipped, too big tits, too dark, too frizzy, too dumb.

Beautiful.

She liked the sound of that because she'd already spent four years on her own and had been in and out of dives shaking her ass, dodging nickels and dimes thrown at her forehead and been kicked out of more apartments than she could count.

This? This was a nice change. A fresh start, if there was such a thing. And these guys and their little hole in the wall club gave her back the hope she'd lost. She even met a friend there. Divine Grace was her stage name but to her friends she was just Gracie. She was a fiery blonde, already had a little one-year-old of her own. She thought she might marry the dad one day. But, she was fun and the two of them hooked up fast, tight, laughing and sharing until the girl realized something – she was really happy here.

Until the rules changed. Tramp and Trash decided it was time to take a cut in the 'dancers' tip money. Which really pissed her off because there wasn't another black girl here. She was the top dollar seller. Those punk-assed white guys with their cheap cologne walking in the door requested her by name – Caramel Candy – because they wanted an escape from their pathetic boring lives and if she could give them something back that they were missing, then dammit, she deserved to keep every cent they tossed at her. Those were her rules.

Tramp and Trash didn't see it that way. They argued with her. They tapped video cameras around the club, even in the private rooms just to be sure she wasn't skimming off the top. Those were their rules and if she didn't play by them, well, she could find another place to service her talents.

"Hey," a familiar voice called to her as she walked into a private session. She looked up. It was that guy from Illinois. Had been paying for lap dances for forever now. Never had splurged and went for an individual lesson. She leaned up against the wall. This was her assigned room. It was better than the rest. A little bit bigger, the table off to the side didn't creak, and there was a little red light shining down in the corner. It made her dark skin look metallic.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, bored, trying to give a pretense of interest.

He smiled at her, though. She didn't really need to try. "Everything," he answered.

It was a mistake. She shouldn't have done everything with him, but she did. She had asked for a condom, but he didn't have one. She checked in the drawer under the table. None in there, either. She pulled the cord to alert the staff out in the hall, had asked for a jimmy and the dumb guy outside said it'd be a minute. Fucker never did come back.

She agreed to go on, but the dude would have to pull out when he was ready. He'd said he could, no problem and they started, rocking and rolling. His hands were everywhere, his mouth over her boobs, licking her from nipples to chin, making noises against her neck, pulling her down harder and faster until she felt him tense, heard him grunt. She pushed back, but his fingers dug into her ass and he thrust into her once, twice, over and over and she could feel the heat inside her. She shoved him away, but his arms were locked and soon he was falling back, spent and shaking.

"Damn," he rasped, "that was fucking amazing."

"Yeah," she breathed, climbing off his limp dick, "amazing."

It was four months later when she saw him again. Must have saved some money up because he paid for a private room, brought her some chocolates. She smirked when she saw him. "What do you want to do?" she asked and mouthed the word _Everything_ as he spoke it.

So she screwed him. Hard. No condom, not even asking for one. Just let herself go until he was gasping for air under her, everything lax. She stayed on top of him, legs straddling his waist. "What's your name?"

He glanced up at her, his blue eyes looking purple with the red light glowing down on him. "Ronnie."

He was telling the truth, she knew right away. She'd become an expert at spotting liars.

"Well, Ronnie," she pulled off him, threw him his underwear. "I'm pregnant."

His brows narrowed. Confused.

"It's yours."

He laughed and then quieted. "What?"

She reached under the table and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it with a steady hand and took a long drag from it. "I'm keeping it. And if you're smart… you'll just ask me where to start mailing the fucking checks."

Ronnie blinked at her now, underwear on, backed up against the wall. She could see the wheels spinning inside his tiny little brain, trying to subtract how long it had been since he'd been here… slapping the twenties down, remembering now that he didn't have a – what did she call it? Oh, yeah – a jimmy. He looked back up at her, his face turned red like a rose on a thorn bush.

"Is there," he gulped, "someone else I could talk to?"

She yanked the cord.

Tramp and Trash didn't take the news as well as she'd hoped. In fact, they were almost blaming her for this error in judgment. Abortion was brought up. In fact, in this particular conversation it was said about every other word.

They asked Gracie to come in and try to talk some sense into her. Gracie was more than shocked. Caramel hadn't said anything to anyone about expecting or missing a period or even casually asking what baby names Gracie liked.

It was just too much information, too fast. They all needed to sleep on it.

A week later – week eighteen of her pregnancy, she stopped smoking (again), gained two and a half pounds, had the ultrasound completed (a girl), placed the first picture on her refrigerator, bought a bassinette – and Gracie called. They had all had a chance to sleep on things and if Caramel was up to it, would she like to meet over at Tramp and Trash's sister's house? Ronnie would be there as would Gracie and he was ready to work out a payment plan.

Caramel agreed. She threw on her coat and stopped to shoo her new kitten out of the way of the opening door. "Whiskey," she maneuvered him to the side, "I'll feed you when I get back." The young tabby meowed up at her as she pulled the door shut, smiling to herself at how good this was going to feel. Standing on her own. Her rules. Her baby. Her life.

Two hours later, things weren't exactly where she'd hoped they'd be. She'd arrived at a small house, far away from anything, the driveway alone was a half a mile long and when she entered through the front door, a giant of a woman greeted her. She stood over six feet tall, hair fisted into messy dreadlocks and the clothes she wore were ill matched, hanging loosely off her body.

"This is Party." Tramp introduced his sister and Caramel nodded, feeling the room shift on her. What was she thinking? Meeting like this? On their turf? She eyed the door as it slammed shut.

They had already been drinking. Two fifths empty, a handful of dark joints were rolled out on a coffee table and a burner was being lit, spoon on top bubbling a clear liquid to a boil. That was where she found Ronnie and her hand rubbed against her abdomen momentarily.

"You know, maybe we should do this over breakfast," she suggested, taking one step back.

"No!" Tramp called out to her, arms stretching into the empty space between them, grabbing her, pulling her into the mix. "It's all good, baby." He smiled and she nodded, checking her exits. Door behind her, small window to the left, a door ahead leading into a kitchen.

When one door closes, a window opens.

She tried to make a break for it. Lunged to the kitchen. But she was stopped. Gracie. Her face was tight, lips thin and she shook her head at her friend. Caramel held her gaze for a moment, tried to push her aside, but Gracie's long arms were stronger and she shoved her down to the hardwood below.

Caramel looked up at her. Gracie shrugged. "I'm sorry," she spoke softly. "But I have a baby I gotta think about, too."

Caramel nodded. Of course. Because no one was ever on her side. Everyone was always on their own side. This was the game of Life and you only got one peg to play – your own.

A small tear seeped out of the corner of her eye and her shoulder lifted to brush it away.

It only took minutes for the men to have her cornered. She wasn't budging on the abortion but the money… okay, maybe she could just raise the kid herself. And no, she wouldn't mention anything to Ronnie's fiancée. And congratulations, by the way.

Tramp was the one doing most of the talking. Trash pushing and shoving her until she was sitting on a table in the living room. It was long, probably used it as a dining table and that girl, Party, was pulling something out of a drawer. Caramel lost her breath for a moment. It was a long knife. Looked sharp.

Funny how her attention was drawn to the blade. Tramp let her get a real close look at it as he used it to slice open her shirt. She barely heard the words that were swirling around her. She caught 'abortion' again and felt her headshake. Her hands splayed over her stomach and she looked at Ronnie. She wanted to tell him it was a girl. She was about seven ounces, almost six inches long. And she would have brown hair, it wouldn't be frizzy. She'd have his nose, not hers, and his lips and she would have a lovely smile. She didn't need the money. She'd figure it out and she was sorry she ever told him that she was pregnant. She could keep it a secret. She'd never bother him again.

But Ronnie was talking half out his ass. He had gotten money from his dad, lots of it, and had made a pay out to the brothers. If Caramel wouldn't get the abortion, they'd have to give her one. No matter what she said, he couldn't – he wouldn't – take the chance of being caught with a half black child on his hands.

She screamed so they gagged her. She fought so Party and Gracie held her down. She wiggled, her boobs jiggling the table, shaking her body so Trash taped them together. Duct tape, extra wide.

Her jeans were jerked off, her legs spread apart, Ronnie holding one, Trash the other. She could feel the cool edge of the knife against her labia, parting her lips.

She screamed. And nothing happened.

"I can't," Tramp sat back, looking at her vagina. "I can't just stick a knife up there." He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to figure out the best way to handle this.

"Well, you could use one of the guns," Party chimed in. Caramel's eyes flew to the tall girl and she muffled a _What?_ through the gag.

Tramp considered the option. "Where you keepin' them these days?"

Party directed him to the kitchen and soon he was back, twirling a handgun. He showed it to Trash who quirked his eyebrows at him. Tramp took his stance again, between Caramel's legs, hands over her pubes, one finger sliding into her vagina and then out and then – then the cold hard steel of the barrel of the gun entered. She screamed into the gag, her back arched up, off the table. She pushed with her feet, flexing her muscles, thwarting her opponents away.

"She likes it," Tramp observed, pulling the gun out and then back in again. In and out. In and out. So many times it made her sick, her stomach heaving the contents of her dinner into her confined mouth.

Maybe it was her muscles retracting. Maybe it was just her time. Maybe Tramp was tired of playing around. But he pulled the trigger then and the heat that bullet presented was nothing like any man she'd ever experienced. Her body went numb. She heard the commotion around her. Voices shouting out to _Watch Out!_ and to _Move!_ There was _so_ _much blood_, she heard them yelling. Her legs were let go. Her arms were released and she felt her hands meet at the center of her body. Her Baby Girl. She liked the name Vanessa.

Everything was spinning fast. She saw a face come closer. Her eyes were starting to shut, but she could see him. Trampoline. What an ass.

"Hey," he poked her. "What's your real name anyway?"

She stared at him, eyes half-mast, everything fading.

He looked over his shoulder at his brother. "Want to take any souvenirs?"

Trash stared hard at her. She blinked. A red light flickered merrily just beyond him, out the small window. It wasn't open, it was closed. _Huh_, was her last thought. She had forgotten. It was almost Christmas.

"Just the boobs," Trash responded and Tramp gave her the best present she could have received – he slashed her throat and it was over.

WWW

In a way it was like waking to a nightmare. Something was tugging him back to reality. It wasn't music but it was something that resembled music. Or singing. Dean's eyebrows reached up, wrinkling his forehead. He lay still, just listening to the words, the harmony, all out of whack.

_I've heard there was secret chord/That David played to please the Lord/But you don't really care for music, do ya…_

It wasn't Sam. It wasn't Bobby. It wasn't Dad. Dean sighed. Of course it wasn't _Dad_, but it certainly wasn't anyone he recognized. That was the nightmare part. It was the one where he woke up alone. Left by everyone he cared for. But that had been then and he had to remind himself that this was now and it was so hard not to get the two confused when he was waking up. Strike that. He wasn't waking up. He was coming-to. The light bulb was on now – shedding a piercing beam around the sharp, horrific pain from his head. He was just held captive by a bunch of lunatic demons and if he had to make a guess, he'd bet his hands that this voice was one of _them_.

_Your faith was strong but you needed proof/You saw her bathing on the roof/Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya…_

It was a gradual opening of his eyelids. Very slowly, just a sliver, not wanting anything to grab on the light of his irises. Just enough to let him see who – which one – it was that had him now.

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah/Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

But that? That was a trench coat singing over there, in the corner. Dean blinked, trying to see through the cobwebs of sleep clinging to his lashes.

"Cas?"

"You are awake." The singing stopped and Castiel turned from the corner and walked to the bed where Dean was lying.

Dean watched him get closer. The room was dimly lit, just the bathroom light on. They were back in the motel room – back at the_ Swing Inn_ – and Dean's head was throbbing. His hand lifted like it weighed a hundred pounds and he pressed two fingers to his temple. They came away wet and sticky. "Cas?" he tried again as the angel stopped within touching distance.

"I tried," Castiel's voice dropped an octave or maybe it had softened. Dean looked up, tried to get a read on his face, but it was stony in the gray light. "I tried to fix you, but…" he held his right hand out, palm up and Dean got the gist – not enough angel juice to fix a little blood.

Dean let his head fall back onto the pillow. It felt like a cement block. Pain radiated inside and out. He had to remember one very important thing: Castiel was not Sam and that meant he'd have to walk him through a few things. "Okay, on the other side of the bed is my duffel. Get the black bag out."

Castiel walked over to the area Dean was talking about and turned on the light.

Dean's arm flew over his eyes. "Turn it off!" he growled and the switch was flicked. Goddamn, that was bright. Castiel didn't know, though. He didn't understand that the light would hurt his head more. Dean breathed through the pain.

Castiel took a long time, longer than anyone else Dean knew, to find the black bag. He walked back over to the bed and handed it to Dean. "Here."

Dean swatted it away. "It's a First Aid Kit. Get some gauze and antibiotic cream out so I can clean this up. He could hear Cas rummaging through the supplies. "It doesn't need stitching, does it?"

Cas stopped again and stared at Dean.

Dean sighed. "Turn on the light. See if the cut's too deep to stop bleeding on its own."

The light turned back on and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the stare coming from beside him and he waited for the verdict. "Well, you kind of look like – "

"Shit. I know."

There was a pause. "I was going to say hamburger." Another lengthy silence. "I think maybe it's too deep."

Dean nodded. Great. He'd just have to settle his stomach, ebb the wave of nausea rolling up his esophagus, get stitched up, patched up, and find Sam. The cool hands on the side of his face surprised him and he found himself shrinking away as Cas edged up next to him, pressing a cool cloth to the gash in his temple.

"I think I can do it," Castiel announced and Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. He gave a reluctant nod, held motionless as the angel used a dab of pump soap to cleanse the area before attempting to stitch him. He grabbed the needles and wiped it off with alcohol before threading it.

Dean swallowed hard before the first prick came and then released a sigh as it slid in, a little shaky, but it pulled tight and Dean instructed him to keep the next stitch close to the first so decrease scarring.

Castiel nodded, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration and Dean tried to relax, his fingers thrumming, his toes wiggling. Dean stilled. He didn't have his boots on. No socks. Weaponless. Sam-less. Okay, enough of this shit. He needed to pull it together. Get his head screwed back on and find some fucking boots, get into the Impala and back on the road so he could hunt these assholes down and get his brother back.

Trouble was, he had no idea where they had been or if they were still there with Sam.

"Cas, how did you find me?"

The stitching continued, uninterrupted. "You called."

Well, that was news. "I did?"

"Yeah, you said you and Sam were in trouble. You gave me a rural route address and I found you in your car. You were asleep or, I guess, passed out."

Dean tried to remember making the call and maybe there was a vague recollection of it, but for the most part, it was all a blank after the head butt with the gun. Before that, however, well, Dean remembered everything before that.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel asked and Dean wondered for a second if the angel was psychic because his timing couldn't be more painstakingly on.

"I don't know," Dean answered truthfully. "There was a group of demons."

Castiel's hands stopped moving.

"They have him and Sam thought…" Dean's voice trailed. What did Sam think? Sam thought he had saw something. Something with horns. Something that was after him. Something that wasn't in the house when they were there. Or was it? Dean swallowed a lump swimming up his throat, fear or terror, didn't want to label it, and stole a sideway look at Cas. "He thought the devil was after him."

The angel lowered his hands. "The devil is after him."

Dean nodded, he had to remind himself to choose his words more carefully because this was an angel he was talking to, not a human and sometimes he had to be literal. "He thought the devil was here. For him. Now."

There was a shadow that skipped across Castiel's face then. Surprise, Dean guessed. And then, for a brief second panic. Cas blinked long and hard and then went back to the stitching. _"And even though it went all wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah."_

"Cas, what's up with the singing?" Dean sighed.

The thread cut and Castiel pulled the last stitch in place. "I thought it calmed you," he explained, reaching for the antibiotic cream. "That's what Sam told me once."

Damn, Dean's throat was dry. He tried to force words out but everything was stuck like a ball of taffy lodged in his air pipe. He was supposed to be able to breathe through this because Sam had asked him to let him grow up. He'd asked to be on the same playing field, but this wasn't equal competition. Just because Sam had asked to be partners didn't mean that Dean had to stop watching out for him. Sam may be just another person in this world and maybe he was the one person that all the bad guys wanted but for Dean, he was more than that. Sam was the most important person in his life.

"Should I sing another song?" Cas interrupted his thought process.

Dean smirked. "God, please, no." He licked his lips as the gauze was pressed against his temple. "I just need to figure out where Sam is."

Castiel tore some tape off. "Do you remember anything?"

Dean nodded.

"Tell me everything," he requested.

And Dean couldn't get it out of his mouth fast enough.

WWW

Well, this was just plain silly.

It really wasn't but he had no other explanation for it. It was probably the bullet wedged inside of him that was making him see things and think things. He was confused, that was it. It was all just a fucked up way to see the Universe right now.

That light was stalking him.

It just hovered there like an angel on his shoulder – a fallen angel – with its distorted smile and its wanting. The wanting was what was going to be the death of him, Sam supposed. It wasn't just the knowing that he was to be the vessel of the most feared creature in all of man, it was the feeding of the need. The anticipation of when, where, and _how_. The how got him every time. How was the devil going to take him. The thought scared him shitless. He didn't have the ability to make the words form together to express to Dean – to express to himself – how truly frightened he was. That no matter what, this was his destiny. He was going to end the world as every man, woman, and child knew it. Every person was going to fear him.

Unless Dean said yes to Michael and killed him. And saying yes wasn't in Dean's vocabulary. Saying yes wasn't an option. It wasn't an option for Sam, either. He'd rather Dean just kill him prior to the Yessir's taking place.

Every day he thought about that. His death. Not Lucifer's but his own death. That would save them all. He couldn't kill himself, the devil would just bring him back but if Dean did it? If Dean killed him, maybe his brother would embody the sword needed to end it all.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Dizziness swept over Sam. It was her this time, Party Girl. They'd been taking turns. Keeping him from sleeping, nudging him, poking him, cursing him, _talking_ to him. He preferred the jabs rather than the words.

He ignored her. It was getting harder, though. They hadn't moved him, hadn't removed the restraints or the gag, hadn't let him take a leak, hadn't given him a drink. Each minute felt like thirty and his body felt like it was going to topple over. He sucked in a deep breath and steeled himself. _Go ahead, bitch, chat it up. _

She sat next to him, pulled the chair closer so her lips were against his cheek. "I'm not afraid of you," she spoke, her mouth tickling his ear. "You're just a dummy. A doll. Full of stuffing, nothing important. Like the – what's his name? Oh, the Scarecrow in the _Wizard of Oz_. Yeah, you're like him. No brains and afraid of a ball of fire."

Sam refused to meet her eyes. He knew what they'd look like anyway. Big and round and black as tar. It was what she wanted. For him to give in, to look at her and show her his fear. He wished Dean was here. Dean was stronger than this. He endured Hell, he told Zachariah time and time again where to stick it, he was sent into the future, given ultimatums. And still he was strong enough to say 'No'.

He wished he was Dean.

"Hey." There was the sound of hands clapping and Sam's gaze swung to the center of the room. Tramp was coming back in, his tattooed arms bunching with muscles as he motioned for Party to take off.

She got up, let Tramp take her seat and then hesitated for a minute. Tramp looked up at her and nodded to the door leading to the kitchen. "Make him something to eat," he ordered.

She looked baffled. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "How the fuck should I know? Peanut butter sandwich? Go see what's in there!"

Sam followed her as she left, hoping she wouldn't bring back anything to eat or drink because if she did, he was going to accept it and he didn't want to accept anything from them.

"Hey," Tramp continued, his voice easy this time, almost sweet. He – It - reached over with a cool hand and tilted Sam's chin in his direction. It was a funny scent that Sam caught then, not an odor, but a smell. Sam's salivary glands kicked in. Tramp smelled coppery, with hints of rust and salt – but it was old, ancient, and feral.

Only then did Sam notice the blood dripping from a cut on Tramp's upper arm. Above it was a tattoo of a guy with a sombrero, a scantly dressed lady over his lap, ass bare and he was about to spank her.

"Now that I have your attention," Tramp smiled, "I was hoping we could talk."

Sam shook his head. No more talking.

Disappointment didn't seem to be on the menu tonight, though, and Tramp let out a heavy, hot breath. "You and I… were not so different." He waved a hand in the direction of where the girl had disappeared to. "Don't worry about what Party said. You're not just a dummy, Sammy. There's lots of really wonderful things inside of you." The smile turned into a grin then and Sam looked away. The flicker of the damn ass fucking light beamed back at him. It didn't matter, Tramp only turned his chin again to face him.

"Remember that nurse? You know, the one you…" Tramp held his finger out and made a slicing gesture across his neck.

Sam tried to look past Tramp. Look beyond the skin he was holding onto, look through the body, through the walls of the house, through the trees, to the street. To the road. He wanted to runrunrun. Find a road that was still open to him.

"What was her name? Mandy? No… Sandy?"

_Cindy. Cindy McClellan. _Sam could still hear her. He could still taste her.

"Yeah, that's right. You remember her." Tramp nodded, giving Sam a small, sad smile. "You tell your brother about her?"

Sam lengthened his stare. Gained distance. Blanked his mind. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Thirty feet. He realized he was really just counting now. Keeping a mental note for balance. Stop himself from going insane.

"See, I've – we've – made mistakes, too, Sammy." Tramp pinched at his too tight t-shirt. "My vessel and me. We've each had our share of homicidal blunders. I know, it happens. You of all people certainly understand slip-ups. That's what makes us similar, huh? Well, and different."

_Oh, great. Time for first grade comparisons 101. Demon style. _Sam gulped, trying to keep from suffocating_._ Trying to keep from inhaling the scent of the blood dripping off Tramp's arm.

Taking a deep breath, Trampoline leaned in close. He bypassed all rules of 'my space, your space' and went straight for 'our space.'

Sam pulled back as far as the ropes and wrist restraints would comply. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tramp's arm snake around the back of the chair and grip tightly around his back.

It was all Sam could do to keep from throwing up.

"The similarity," Tramp went on, breath spicy against Sam's skin, "is we're both killers. We've both taken an innocent life for our own pleasure. That is what I had to find in a vessel. Someone who took another life just for the fun. We all did – Trash and Party, too. We're not the run of the mill demons, you know." His owlish eyes flicked up toward the light hovering over Sam. "We're what you might call Bodyguards." The light brightened for a few seconds and then dimmed down. Tramp stared back at Sam. "The difference between us is, you aren't just a killer. You're a hero, too. You save lives as well as take them. You pick and choose. It's very… God-like."

Sam ignored the points the demon was trying to jab at him as best he could and concentrated on the ones that made up the most importance to him now: they were bodyguards. They had a job to do, like everyone else.

Tramp's left hand suddenly laid down on Sam's shoulder. "So, what's the plan, Sammy?" His hand traveled on, gliding to the middle of Sam's back and he rested his elbow next to Sam's cheek, the blood still dripping slowly, only now it landed on Sam's jeans. The smell filled his nares and in his woozy state, he felt his memory blur to the hunters – Dad's old friends – the fucking pricks coming to help him and instead forcing tainted blood down his throat. But this wasn't a forceful action. This was taunting and tempting at its best and Tramp wanted Sam to take it.

"If you say yes you won't know anything that happens. You'll be so gone, it'll be like you're dead." Tramp found Sam's gaze. "And isn't that what you really want? To be over the pain. The death. The blood on your hands? Don't you want to just be finally free of all that guilt? How many more people are you willing to watch die, Sam? Because of you? Because of all this? You caused this, whether you intended to or not. How many more people are you willing to watch die because of your actions?"

And Sam got it. The message was loud and clear – stay. Do everything he'd been doing. Fight every monster out there, fight his brother, fight the people he loved, fight himself. Just to get where? Where was the other side? What if they didn't win? What was waiting for him either way? It wouldn't change anything, he still caused the start of the apocalypse. Innocent lives had already been lost because of him. They'd always been lost because of him. Starting in the beginning. When he was innocent.

Sam released a raspy breath from the limits of his restraint. How, after everything he had done, how would he ever recover from it all? There was no _Sorry_ that was big enough to seal all the holes he had dug. He didn't deserve anyone's forgiveness. He'd caused Hell on Earth and there was no redemption from that.

Or he could say yes. Let the devil take him over and be lost from it all. No more guilt. No more sorrow. No more feeding the need and worrying about the how. Just let it be over.

Well, that sounded easy enough. Sam locked eyes with Tramp and nodded, his forehead lightly brushing the oily hair across from him. He could see the light next to him beam.

"Yeah?" Tramp asked, his muscles flexing as he moved his arm down. His fingers played with the end of the duct tape next to Sam's skin. "You ready to make a deal? Because that would make my day so much easier, Sammy."

_It's Sam, fucknut._ Sam nodded again. Yeah, he was ready to make a deal. This dickwad was going to have his head stuck up his ass wondering where the fuck he went wrong when Sam Winchester was done with him. _Bigger than the Bear_.

The light was radiating with excitement. It fluttered and danced and moved along in a zippity way that had Sam's tired brain buzzing. It salsa'd its way in between Tramp and Sam and the demon moved back, giving it room. The smile was there, twisted and miserable and Sam looked away for a moment.

He could feel Tramp's fingers on his face again, this time peeling the duct tape off his mouth.

_One. Two. Whatcha gonna do?_ He had to give himself a count for balance.

_Three. Four. Demons on the floor_. The floorboard creaked over to the right and Sam's eyes glanced over.

_Five. Six. Grab your crucifix_. It was the tabby cat, patches of fur missing, eyes liquid black. Standing next to him was a dead boy, torso bloated, skin filleted, fingers only a skeleton, the sockets of his darkened eyes hollow.

_Seven. Eight. Screw your fate. _The boy shook his head at Sam.

The tape came off, fell to the floor and Sam's stare swung back to Tramp. Cut the plastic off and Sam was going to waste these mofos.

_Nine. Ten. A means to an end_.

_Come and get it._ He thought, but he never had a chance.

The light imploded then and Sam felt the breath leave his body as a strange sensation of white-hot pain flooded his head, warming his body. Oddly it felt like the time when he was in Cold Oak. When he'd been stabbed in the back by… what was his name?

Well, that was strange. He couldn't remember anymore.

WWW

Castiel had been silent for a long time.

Dean had managed to get himself up, dressed the rest of his scrapes and bruises, found some socks on the floor and grabbed his old boots from the back of the Impala. He'd told Cas everything, relived it again, danced it again, felt it again. Still didn't know what it all added up to.

Cas had been quiet throughout, asking a few questions, but mostly was quiet. He had left the room for a small period of time, giving Dean some human privacy to attend to his needs. Said he'd be back in a few minutes.

And he was. He had yet to break a promise to Dean.

He spread out a map of the Quad Cities on the other bed – Sam's bed – and pointed to where he picked Dean up. "You and Sam were there talking to the widow?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah and then we moved up the road. Checked out Gracie Reimer's house and we were going to go next door and talk to he neighbor."

Cas was nodding. "I did some research." The angel cleared his throat. "My kind of way."

Dean was lacing up his boots. His kind of way. He didn't even want to ask. "And?"

A slight tilt of the head and Castiel was sighing. "This Gracie that was killed. She was a stripper before, about ten years back."

Dean shrugged. "So?"

"So, she worked at a club and back then it was owned by a couple of brothers –"

"No fucking way."

Cas raised his eyebrows. "Way. Trash and Trampoline Moloch." Castiel paused, holding Dean's sudden interest. "Moloch is another name for the devil, Dean. These kids were probably sought out for a reason."

The small room holding two twin beds, a hunter and an angel was surprisingly quiet. Dean's gaze broke away and he felt his shoulders sag, felt the pressure mount, stacking on top of his bones like unspoken secrets. It had just been the night before that they were holed up here, playing cards, Dean telling Sam he wasn't betting on the game, it didn't matter the cards he was dealt. Because he was betting on Sam.

"Like fate?" Dean asked.

Castiel hitched a shoulder. "If you believe in that sort of thing." He pointed again to the map. "You said the widow didn't know what happened to her husband. Ronnie, right? And she was acting odd?"

Dean nodded, stood up.

"Well, she was lying. Her husband, " Castiel took in a deep breath, "he wasn't without sin and I think that maybe Ronnie, Gracie and her son, they were all sacrificed to draw you and Sam here. Kind of like their own devil's trap."

Dean really tried not to think of his brother sitting back in the house. Tied up, beaten up, surrounded by a group of demons. It was futile, of course. He couldn't help but think about it. "What about the horned thing. And the cat?"

The angel stood still for several heartbeats. Dean could count them, wondered then if Castiel had a heart beating underneath his clothes or if it was just quiet like a vampire. "Maybe Sam did see something. You start talking of the devil and his horns appear. It's been said that the devil will travel around with a mutt –"

"Like a hell hound?"

"No," Cas shook his head. "Like with a dog. A guard dog. They're mean, but their mainly protective. Loyal. They can't possess humans and so I'm thinking, if the devil was near and it needed a quick possession, maybe it decided the cat was good enough."

Dean remembered the cat jumping between them, swatting at the demon.

"Demons have hierarchies, too, Dean. Just like angels. And you say this was a group of them – a clan – and I can only assume that since they let you go, they belonged to Lucifer. They'd want you to be intact. Lucifer he wants this fight. He wants to finally defeat Michael. Which means you have to be whole." Cas waited a moment, let that sink in and then added, "The cat is Lucifer's canine and the body of the boy is the witness."

"The witness?"

"Some deals need an outsider's point of view. Someone purely innocent present to witness it to make it true. Most likely, it wouldn't be a demon." He drew his attention back to the map. "For this to happen, for this clan to come here, they had to choose a ruined family. These brothers and sister were all infected by the worst kind of sin."

Dean nodded. "You mean murder?"

"Murder of the innocent of innocents." Castiel pulled out a packet of papers and handed them over. "I had to hunt this down at the local library."

Dean took them, giving Cas a quizzical look at the words hunt and library. Amateur. "So Lucifer's posse set this up? So Sam and I would come here looking for them?"

A hand waved over Dean's chest. "I branded you. He can't find you. So he brought you to him." He waited as Dean skimmed the articles he had on microfiche. "When Gracie worked for the brothers, one of her co-workers came up missing. A young lady, later they found her body. She'd was murdered and she'd been pregnant."

Dean's eyebrows tweaked up. "Innocent of the innocents?"

Castiel nodded. "So if I had to guess, I'd say Ronnie was murdered by his wife. But she was probably possessed. Doesn't remember it. And Gracie and her son were probably killed by someone who was possessed, too. I don't know, maybe Ronnie killed them. I found out that he was a frequenter of the dance club the brothers owned."

The angel's voice was just background noise now. Dean's mind was grinding into overtime. He didn't need to know all the details. He got it – the devil was there, in that house, with his bodyguards, his canine, his witness and his fucking vessel. Who killed who when and why didn't matter to him. He didn't give a shit how these dimwitted brothers were chosen. He just knew that they were and they had Sam. Nothing else mattered.

He needed to check his supply of Holy Water. Needed to brush up on a few key versus out of the Bible. He needed to memorize a couple of phrases in Latin. Stat. And he needed to load the rifle up with salt.

He took a breath. He needed a lot of damn things. One of them being his brother.

Dean reached out and grasped Castiel's coat. "Come on." He tugged him toward the door. "You can fill me in on all the extras in the car."

Cas lost his footing for one split second as he was hurled out into the fleeting day. He looked over at Dean. "Where are we going?"

Dean didn't stop. He had no idea. He opened up the car door and slid in behind the wheel. Sam could be anywhere by now. That thought pounded against his temple, threatening to rip open the stitches Cas had just sewn there. It was slipping away from him, impossible to hold on to like water running in a stream. Dean stared at the keys in the ignition, knowing that when he turned the car over, he had no direction to turn to. Which was the road still open to them?

"This is a mess," Cas commented from the seat next to him, trying to sort through the copies of papers he had gotten so Dean could follow his tale in black and white.

He caught it then. The picture of the woman murdered. The one who Gracie had worked with. She had been pregnant. Dean grabbed the Xerox from Cas and brought it closer, reading. She had worked for the brothers. Been kicked around her whole life, kicked out of everyone's world, never loved, only used. Her doctor was quoted in the article. Said she was eighteen weeks along, it was a girl, and she hadn't named the father, but she had said he was Caucasian and he wouldn't be participating in their lives except for financially.

There were more articles. One accusing the brothers of murder. One claiming Ronnie had made a payout to them and maybe he was the possible father. That they were all in on it. But there wasn't enough evidence to convict. The state even took them to trial, the brothers hired a high-stake lawyer. The case was dropped, they'd spent a ton of cash, and ended up selling the club.

They did find her body, though. It was dumped in a creek in the middle of nowhere, back behind Gracie Reimer's house. And wasn't that a coincidence? She had been the girl's friend.

The woman's mother claimed her remains and had her and the unborn baby cremated. So much for a DNA test. Everything had been found. Except for her boobs. They had been sliced off. Never did find out what happened to them.

Dean stared at the eyes in the picture. No question about it. She was the girl from his dreams. Blood, boobs, and all. Dean saw that she had ultimately died of a slash to her neck. It was probably a mercy kill, though. Before that, she was shot in the vagina. She and the fetus bled out.

It was hard to decipher everything in the picture. It had been used in the newspaper and then archived and then Cas had copied it off of microfiche. It wasn't very clear, but she was definitely holding a kitten and as Dean narrowed his eyes, he swore it was a tabby.

"Son of a bitch." His eyes flicked back to hers. Dark brown, hollowed. He blinked twice. Reminded him of someone. Or something. The article followed up with the brothers. Neither married. One sold his house, one was foreclosed on. Both had moved on together, outside of town. Last time anyone had checked in on them, they lived with their sister Party.

Dean started up the Impala. The girl had a name. Mary. And that hit home like a punch to the gut.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked again and Dean saved him the pained look, just kept his eyes dead ahead.

"I got a hunch," he replied, checking his mirrors.

Castiel had him pinned in his stare. "You mean, you're taking a leap of faith?"

Freaking angels. Dean smiled briefly. Castiel wasn't Sam. He was his friend. "Call it whatever you want, man."

Turning the old Chevy to the east Dean was able to name what it was racing through his veins and it wasn't fear or revenge or even anger. It was obligation. And with that came a swell of devotion and loyalty that he had hidden under his skin. Even though he had been use to it in the past, it was funny that in the now he wasn't as prepared for it as he usually was.

His hands started to shake and his heart picked up speed. _Cool_, he thought. It may not be his first choice, but it was what filled him and he would use it as a weapon.

-TBC-

**Playlist:** _Hallelujah_ performed by originally by Leonard Cohen, sung by Castiel, the Angel

**A/N:** Sorry if it was too difficult to read through. I have chapter five finished (need to get it off to the beta) and I've started on chapter six, this story will be six, possibly seven chapters. Thanks for reading and if you desire to leave me hate mail, I answer that as well.


	5. Vein to Artery

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One

**A/N: **Sorry for the stall in updating. The holidays swamped me a bit, but we're back, kids! Are you ready for more? I hope the boys can take it – where were we? Oh, yes, the sibling-demon-things have released Dean who is with Cas and they're preparing to kick some ass to get Sam back who has seemed to be invaded by a mysterious white light.

Or, so would be the assumption.

**Thanks:** I bow to the master of computer red-ink **MAZ101**. Thanks for your suggestions, your corrections in my grammar, and the occasional "Are you okay?" The jury's still out on that one.

**Chapter Five: Vein to Artery**

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

He didn't kill her right away. In fact, he chose to handcuff her to a railing in the house, let her smell the scent of blood and death. Remind her that all life is precious. Even her own.

"Mr. Randall?" she tried again, alerting him that she was still in the room. Randy Randall had been all over the house, tracking mud from his boots across the carpet and hardwood. Normally, he would have pitched a fit at his carelessness, but not today. He didn't even seem to notice the mud or the fact that she was still there, waiting on him. He'd ignored her mostly, preferring to talk to his invisible friend in the corner of the living room.

He heard her this time, though. Turning his head he glared at her shivering form. He walked back, stepped over the rolled up rug and huddled down near her, reaching out a hand – almost gently – laying it on her shoulder. His eyes were black, she noticed right away, almost startling her into more shudders. "What the fuck do you want?" he asked, tightening his grip on her.

She almost became lost in his stare, wanting to look away, but couldn't. Snagged, hooked, totally helpless to his confines. "I – " she started and had to blink, had to bring herself back to reality. Reality… she didn't want to think about that, either. "I was wondering…" a sob escaped her and she sucked it back in, "if you'd… let me… go."

Well that got him to smile followed closely by hearty laughter. She held still, no longer wanting him to answer, but knowing he would.

"Oh, darling," a deep breath in and then released, hot on her face, making her hair feather away from her cheeks, ending with a long, drawled out, "Nooooo."

Her eyes slid away, breaking the hold and landed on the rolled up rug. She cleared her throat and asked, "What happened to Mr. Randall?" Gracie knew it was an odd question because he was right in front of her, but he wasn't. And he really wasn't the first person she wanted to know about, but she had to figure a way out of this mess somehow.

"Oh, he's in here." She could see a hand splay over his chest. "He always liked you, you know that, right?"

And she nodded, tears spilling over her eyes.

"Never could get over the age difference, huh? Not even after your husband died?"

She shook her head.

"He ever know about… you know, your past?"

Another shake. She looked at the face of her neighbor again, eyes full of horror. "He's a good man."

"The kind that wouldn't like an ex-stripper living next to him?"

She breathed, then, her head not able to confirm or deny.

"What?" he asked and he came in closer, nose to nose, almost touching.

She stared straight ahead. "Wasn't my fault. My family didn't care about me anymore. I had nowhere else to turn."

"Really?" he backed away, rolled onto the balls of his feet, stood up and walked over to the rug. He gave it a mild a kick. "Wasn't your fault." Said it sarcastically, full of blood. Then he circled around again and she felt her body pull towards his. Her chest lifted away from the railing like a shock to the heart. A small yelp escaped her and she felt the cuffs tug on her wrists. "You sure Sister Mary Fredrick would say that? That is wasn't your fault?"

Her body was released from the invisible hold and she found her lungs again, the air whipping through her pipes too fast. She took a minute to calm herself and then found him again, hovering over to her right this time, amused with himself.

"You know about that?" she asked.

He shrugged nonchalantly and grinned. "Word-Up."

_She wondered if it ever got washed._

_Gracie sat across from Sister Mary Fredrick, staring at the big black and white habit. It was cloaked loosely around her enormous body, the only signs of skin available were her pudgy face poking out and her equally plump hands. She glanced over her paperwork and frowned at Gracie._

_Gracie snapped her gum. Sister Mary Fredrick looked like a killer whale. If only she had a harpoon._

"_So?" Sister spoke first, leading the conversation, trying to get more information and dammit if Gracie was going to give her the names of any of her friends. Every time Sister asked her a question, Gracie answered her the same way, "Word-Up." She'd heard it in a song. Figured the penguin wouldn't be able to figure out what it meant anyway. _

"_Not going to tell me?" she asked again. Stupid Catholic school was run by dumb, sexless nuns and she was only there because no other school wanted her. Not after what she'd done two and a half schools ago. Only reason why this school took her in was because her dad had money. Her family wasn't even fucking Catholic._

"_I don't know who did it," Gracie answered, snapped her gum again because she could and it made Sister Fredrick's lip curl. Bet that didn't happen every day._

_More papers turned and the nun leaned over Gracie's covert file, read a few sentences, made more facial frowns and Gracie wondered which phase of her life the orca was reading up on. The fistfight phase, the food poisoning phase, the I'm not sleeping with my roommate because I'm afraid of the dark phase. And the list went on and on. _

"_Grace."_

_The sound of her name from the nun's lips made Gracie sit up straighter. She couldn't get a read on it – maybe hopeful or intrigued. She lifted her face higher, let her gaze lock across the large desk in between them and she waited._

"_You are such a beautiful child, my dear. Such a glorious name. You do know that when Grace is given by God that it is a supernatural wonder he extends to intellectual creatures for their eternal salvation?"_

_Gracie blinked. What the hell was the Flying Nun trying to say to her? That her name was powerful? Wonderful? That she was intelligent? What the –? Gracie blew a bubble, letting it explode in a pink mess all over her face. Slurped it back in. "Did you know that the killer whale isn't really a whale? It's a dolphin."_

_Sister Mary Fredrick slammed her hands on the desk, over the super-secret file. Gracie caught two words peeking out between her fingers in the Helvetica chaos: unreformed and recidivist. She'd have to look that last one up. Committed it to memory._

"_We've spoken to your father – "_

"_Uh-huh." Been here. Done this._

"_And we think – "_

"_Yeah?"_

"_It's probably in the best interest for everybody –"_

"_If I were to leave?" Because it was always in the best interest of the schools or the students or the administration. No one ever asked Gracie what was in the best interest for Gracie._

_She had six months and three days left until graduation. Couldn't even do that right, could she? She heard the sister say the phrase 'alternative school' and quietly wondered what exactly she'd learn there. Maybe a place like that would be in her best interest. She'd been wanting to get her nipple pierced. Maybe someone there could show her how. Or, who knows, maybe there was someone there who knew some cool knife throwing tricks. Or maybe – and this was just thinking outside the box – maybe there was somebody there who could use a camera real good. She'd been practicing some poses lately of pictures she'd like to have taken of herself. Thought maybe somebody somewhere would be interested in paying money for them. _

_Or, she could just skip all the proper procedures, the trial and error, the Q&A's, the R&D's, the D&C's and just get to the meat of it all. _

_She just wanted to get the fuck out. No school. No parents. Just on her own. Her way. Not theirs. _

"_Dear, there are still schools in your area that could work for you…" the Sister smiled. Almost looked real. _

_The black and white habit bobbed in her direction like a giant fishing lure. Gracie took that as an invitation for lunch._

"_So, you know what that means." Gracie kept her voice low, curt. Suicidal._

_Sister Fredrick's eyes opened and closed, real slow, like she was trying to jar her memory. "About?" she finally asked, already bored – no, putout – that she had to talk to her any longer._

"_About?" Gracie allowed her chest to swell with air then, knew she was going to need the energy and then released it in a short, jabbing laugh. "About the killer whale, silly!"_

_The habit tilted to the right in question. Gracie still wanted to ask if she washed it or if she had more than just the one. Was Mary Fredrick's closet chock full of black and white or was this the lone orca-wearing-outfit? She sighed. Guessed she'd never find out the answer to that one._

"_Grace." _

_Her name again. This time, there was nothing behind it but a tireless effort. So Gracie made sure to answer her properly, "Did you know, Sister? That besides humans the dolphin is the only other species who has sex for pleasure."_

_Silence. That shut her up pretty damn quick. Word-Up. Gracie was rather proud of herself. _

_Then she lunged across the desk, her hush-hush file scattering to the floor along with herself and a very surprised nun. Sister Mary Fredrick's head slammed against the hard wood floor, the teenager smashing on top of her. Gracie grabbed the habit from the back and fisted the cloth until her sweat wetted it against her palms. She ignored the flabbiness of the woman's face and went right for the lips, locking hers against the nun's. She kissed her with everything inside of her, with every name she was ever called, with every push she was ever shoved, with every slap she was ever struck with. She gave the Sister everything. _

_And soon she felt a pudgy hand pull her in close instead of restraining her and the soft lips opened on their own instead of being forced. Gracie wondered how the hell a habit came off anyway, probably a lot harder than a bra, and she knew that this would get her kicked out of any school – present or future – for good._

"_Word-Up," she whispered._

"You were always no good," he explained.

She started to cry harder.

"What you did to your friend Mary and her baby and to Sister Fredrick, it's inexcusable."

Gracie gasped in a breath. "I'm sorry."

"Save your sorry's for another day," he advised and knelt in again. "Your apologies don't make anything okay."

She could hear a sound coming from the far wall. Sounded like scratching or scraping.

"Mr. Randall is really sorry about this. He really did like you," he went on, batting his dark eyes at her. "This is just how it has to be. We need you to get what we want. See, we're in the middle of a war and – " he paused, "well, you don't care about all of that, but know this, Mr. Randall will be okay. He won't quite remember any of it. Maybe in his dreams, but he'll just think they're nightmares. He really did like you. Knowing you're missing is going to rip him apart."

Gracie felt her hands being uncuffed and she brought them across her chest, rubbed her right wrist. She looked up at him and could see over his shoulder that the rug was moving, causing the strange sound. "Oh my God," she cried.

"Not really," he pacified. "I do want you to know that we didn't want to kill your son…"

The body emerged out of the far opening of the carpet roll, head first, almost looked like it was being born again.

"But we needed a person free of sin to be the host for our witness."

She couldn't hear a fucking word he was saying. Her eyes were transfixed on the body of her baby boy, bullet hole to the chest, blood long done with spilling out, _walking_ to her. He stopped next to whoever this Mr. Randall was. He was on _their_ side? It didn't make any sense.

"Gracie, you're a monster." Mr. Randall's hands wrapped around her neck. "An atrocity to this world. A fiend." More pressure and she felt a crushing sensation. Her hands came up once to swat him away. Useless. "An abomination."

Her eyes were glued on the figure of her son. She knew deep inside that this wasn't – this couldn't – be the person she birthed eleven years ago. He blinked at her and she realized those weren't his eyes staring down at her. They were dark brown and held a glimmer of hope behind them. She'd seen that look before. Suddenly images filled her memory of a night she thought she'd forgotten about. She remembered those soft eyes closing and not opening up again. She remembered helping hold that person down. She recalled the filleting of her friend after it was all over.

Two thumbs met at the center of her trachea and she knew she had about 2.2 seconds. She mouthed it as fast as she could, "I'm sorry."

"You're a murderer," Mr. Randall's brows lifted coolly and it all went black.

WWW

This was lovely. This was the reason dreams were made.

Sam looked straight ahead. He couldn't tell what color the walls were or if there was any furniture present. He didn't know if it was day or night or if it was sunny or raining. Nothing about this dream mattered because it was made of beauty and love and _her_.

It was Jess. It was always Jess.

His heart didn't leap to his throat or speed up with excitement, it exploded. He closed his eyes but he could still feel her there, watching him. It was a familiar warmth from deep inside, one he still tucked in the pockets of his deepest treasures. Love wasn't just a word that they had used, it was a feeling. He had given Jess everything he had. When she whispered to him, it wasn't for his ears, it was for his heart and when she kissed him, it wasn't for his lips, but for his soul.

Their love, like many loves, could not be defined. It could only be felt, experienced, and lived.

And right now, Sam felt Jess.

He opened up his eyes again and stared at her face, her body. Blonde locks flowing down her shoulders in sweet vanilla curls. Her face turned up into a whimsical smile. Her hands crossed in front of her abdomen. It wasn't even bleeding. She was whole and perfect and beautiful.

It was a lovely dream.

Sam knew it wasn't real. He wanted it to be – wished it were – but he knew deep down that this wasn't real. No matter how much this apparition looked like the love of his life, it wasn't her.

He didn't know why he knew that it wasn't her, he just knew. And something told him to hold on to that.

"Sam – "

"Shh," he hushed, not wanting her to speak. Not wanting the words he knew she was going to say to come out of her mouth.

"What is it?"

Sam tried not to roll his eyes. Maybe this was an hallucination. Maybe those freaks from before had ripped him apart and forced him to drink their blood. Sam swallowed. He was parched. He didn't remember drinking anything. He looked to his shoulder. Blood was still trickling out. Maybe they had poured more into him, tainted, because this figure in front of him wasn't real and he was imagining things like he had when he was in the… Damn. He couldn't remember where he had been but he was at what's-his-name's house. God, Sam shut his eyes. He pictured him in front of him. Ball cap on, flannel shirt open, gray t-shirt underneath. Dad's friend. Dad. Okay, he remembered him. He was hunting and… wait. Sam shook his head. No, Dad wasn't hunting; he was dead.

Sam felt his knees buckle, even though he was sitting down and he could feel his body falling to the floor. Dad had died. He had found him. Called – yelled – for help. It hadn't done any good. Dad couldn't be saved. He'd already been sold.

Yeah, dad was dead and Dean was with him now. Sam looked around. Wasn't here right now, but he was somewhere close. Probably off with dad's friend – what was his name?

Bobby! Yeah, that was it. Sam smiled to himself and said it over and over: _BobbyBobbyBobbyBobby._

He couldn't believe he'd forgotten him.

"Sam?" This Jess' voice was crisp, sounded a lot like her. "You doing okay?"

Sam's eyes swept the place. Dark walls. Couldn't see anything on them, no pictures, no clock. There didn't seem to be a door. He squinted. No window.

"Where am I?"

There was a distinct whisper off beyond This Jess' shoulder. A hiss, a word, and Sam couldn't quite make it out.

She smiled. "Where do you want it to be?"

_Oh, screw this shit_, Sam thought. If he could wish himself somewhere, he knew where that place would be. It was black as midnight and embraced him in leather, the engine purring like a lullaby. He had no idea what highway or back road his brother was on, but he knew wherever he was, he was home. And, Auntie Em, there was no place like home.

He opened his mouth to make his request, if it worked, which he had no idea if it would, but he had no other shot, but This Jessica was already shaking her head at him.

"You don't want to wish that," she warned and when Sam started to rebuff, she was quick to fire back, "Believe me. All that will happen is you'll be stuck. And you won't be able to stretch your legs."

He narrowed his eyes. He could wish to go to what's-his-face's house. Sam felt his gaze drop. Dammit. He pictured him again. Ball cap. Plaid shirt opened – no closed – no open. A shirt underneath.

"Maybe you want to go someplace sunny. Like, I don't know, California?"

It didn't matter where he wished to go. Sam knew this was a mirage. A farce. This Jess was just trying to keep him busy, keep his mind from thinking of other things – Bill? Blake? It was definitely a 'B'. Keep his mind from remembering because for some reason having Sam recall Jess was important, everything else was futile – Bobby! That was it. _BobbyBobbyBobbyBobby._

"This isn't working," she commented, but it wasn't to Sam. It was to the nothingness around them. Another hiss was heard from beyond and This Jess walked toward Sam. She shrugged, stopping a few feet in front of him. "Did you ever love me?"

Sam frowned. Whatever name he had on the tip of his tongue was gone again. "What? Of course."

"How much?"

Jess would have never asked that question. She _knew_. Sam huffed, frowned at this version.

A hand on her hip and Sam could see her abdomen now was reddened. "Sam." She said it like she had back when. Back when they would go to parties and Sam would drink too much for when they would roll in bed and she'd ask about his scars. She said it like she did when she said he was going to his 'dark places'. The places she was never given permission to enter.

"Dean." Sam narrowed his eyes at her. "I need to talk to Dean."

This Jess gave him a confused look. She spread her arms and looked around. "Who?" she asked, but her voice was teasing him. "I've never heard of him."

_Lie_. Sam had talked to Jess about Dean. She was… he breathed. She's trying to confuse you, Sam told himself and his mind rolled back to the last memory he had of Jess. In bed, sweet, loving, touching… but that wasn't His Jess. No, that had been… Lucifer.

That name he remembered. That face he remembered.

"Where am I?" he asked again and then This Jess sighed, long and heavy. A white light appeared at her feet and danced around her, causing a delightful giggle to sing out of her mouth. She shooed it away, but it came back, this time a trail of red on its tail and when it touched her toes, she ignited in a ball of fire. And up to the wall she went until she was over Sam, bleeding to death, asking him _Why?_

Because for Sam it was always Jess.

It didn't matter if it was a dream or a nightmare or the real thing. Dying by fire, alive and awake had to be the worst way to go. It left nothing behind and hid everything.

He could feel a warmth behind him. Knew it wasn't the fire, it was a stronger than that. Something wrapped itself around his body and brought him in close, slipping his too tall body into a snuggle of welcome. It made Sam sick, felt like everything was sliding sideways and Sam right along with it.

He wasn't ready for this. He was exhausted. Confused. Lost. He was scared and he wasn't ready to know what was behind him. What had him pinned chest to back. What wanted him so badly when really he just needed the only person he couldn't forget.

"Dean," he requested again and this time he could taste smoke on his breath.

"Hush," it whispered, grip tightening, but not comforting. "Just breathe."

Sam tried to do that. One breath in, one breath out. Buying his time. Remembered that Dad was dead and what's-his-name had a ball cap and a house – wasn't sure of his name – maybe it was Steve. Wasn't clicking into place. And that he and Dean had been together.

_You have to let me grow up_.

So much for standing on his own two feet. Sam shook his head of the thought. He'd requested Dean to back off, to give Sam space. Stop calling the shots and choosing the station and just let him breathe.

"That's it," it rasped. "Just keep breathing and this, too, soon will pass."

"No," Sam growled, tried to wiggle away. He was sure Dean would show up, come to help him because Sam actually needed a hand right now and Dean wouldn't leave him behind because Dean thought Sam was a –

"Monster." The thing behind him hissed.

Sam's eyes widened. He saw the word flash in front of him in big, black, block letters and then linger there. The M slithered on its side and the points came together, laughing at him like a Bugs-Bunny-Cartoon gone bad.

Yeah, he remembered; Dean had thought that.

WWW

Dean cut the engine, jammed the keys in his right front jeans pocket. He'd raced all the way to this point. Like a NASA Champion.

"You think this is the place?" Cas asked, peering out the windshield.

Dean nodded. It was an old two story house, stark white against the night. Small in size, really, with a porch off the front. The two windows on the upper level slanted in a way that made the look like the house was frowning out to the world. There was the addition of the happy little tire swing swaying off a tree, though. Contradiction or just a leftover play toy from another lifetime. Hard to tell.

The house itself looked fairly well kept-up, built to last, solid. The paint was applied not long ago, no peeling or missing patches. The windows, however, were hazy at best. Hard to see inside. Dirty. And the yard – there was a forest of weeds growing where the grass should be and the bushes were hedging against the house, waiting for certain takeover.

The part that cinched it, however – the part that Dean knew without a doubt that this was the place – was the fence. It was a tall wall of cement, stretching towards the sky. An iron gate being the one and only passage in or out. It was also the only real way they could see much from the street.

Somebody really wanted their privacy respected. In fact, they demanded it.

"You ready for this?" Cas asked, slamming the door and meeting up with Dean at the trunk.

Dean threw him Dad's old .45 and grinned at the angel like they were going to an amusement park for the day. Nothing but roller coasters. Forget the ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds. Bring on the Super Screamers. "Absofuckinglutely."

Castiel shrugged, tucked the gun in his waistband and, without question, followed Dean's lead.

www

It had taken twenty minutes to scale the gate. Well, first they had tried to jump the fence, but that wasn't working and Cas had offered to 'pop' them over the cement barricade – or better yet – into the house, but Dean had refused. Castiel didn't ask why. Didn't matter, Dean suspected he knew. If they had to use Cas' mojo on anything, it would be getting out once they had Sam, not getting in. Dean could freaking get them in. He was a pro at breaking into all sorts of crazy places. But he didn't know what they'd find when they got inside and sometimes that made it difficult with escape. No, Cas could hold back his _Penn and Teller_ act and save his energy.

They had nestled up against one of the windows to the west of the house. Dean took the chance, peering in through the pane of filthy glass seeing the nastiness that lay beyond. The two brutes… damn, never got their names, didn't even know how or if they even fit into the puzzle. They were sitting on the couch, eating peanut butter and honey straight out of the jars and watching… Dean's eyes skated across the room… watching _The Goonies _on TV. He had liked that movie growing up. Hell, by the time Sam had seen it, it was already being labeled 'A Classic'. Still, the small screen was moving the characters along their journey, the older brother was smacking the younger brother across the head.

Dean swallowed. All the adrenaline from before was gone. His hands were steady. His heart was thumping at a normal rate. Everything he had building up inside of him to get him to this point had burned away somewhere. Maybe it was the race over the wall. Maybe it was that he was keeping things in check. Ready, not anticipating. Or maybe it was because he wasn't sure anymore who this Sam was that he was saving.

He never thought he'd think that about his brother. _What I'm willing to do for you or dad, it scares me sometimes._ Never thought he'd doubt who Sam was. _How sure are you that what you brought back is 100% pure Sam?_ Never thought he'd think it would be better to just let what was dead stay dead. _Thank-you. Really. I won't let you down._

"I will not let them take Sam." Castiel suddenly spoke up, right next to Dean's ear, and dammit, he knew about the boundary rules.

Dean flinched, okay, he jumped and turned his head to the side, his gaze sliding out of his periphery to take a look at his friend.

Even in the night, with the trench coat draped over him, against the house edged with shrubs, Castiel held a glow about him that was out of this world. It was peaceful. Dean blinked, staring at him for a moment before he nodded.

"And neither will you," Cas reminded him. "Whatever doubts you have, Dean, I know that deep down, that you believe."

A breathless moment passed. "Believe what?" he scratched out.

And Castiel smiled, his teeth glimmering like stars. "You know."

Dean felt his face wrinkle into a mess of frowns. He didn't have time for this shit. "Seeing is believing, Cas." He growled that out, tried to shove past the angel, but sometimes it was like moving a boulder.

A strong hand stopped him, pulled him around and Cas was right there, eyes like laser beams, guiding and pushing. He leaned in closer and in a low whisper: "There are things in this world we cannot see and usually they are more real than the ones that we can." Then he pushed Dean ahead. "Now get mad. Let's get your brother back."

And, dammit, all it took was a little pep talk. As he walked to the front door, Dean was warmed by the heat of his own blood racing vein to artery and back again. His foot came up… _shoot first, ask questions later_… and bashed in the front door.

It was with so much force, the door literally swung off its hinges. He could hear the scuttle from the living room before he actually saw the brutes. _Guess who's coming for dinner, you son of a bitch_… and just like clockwork, Dean was on the right and Cas was on his left. It didn't feel like him and Sam. But, still, it felt good.

"Jesus Christ," the biggest of the suited-demons spoke up. "It's an angel of the Lord."

Castiel was supposed to run interference while Dean rambled off the exorcism rite he'd memorized – and that was no small feat – it was one hell of a ritual, Old Latin. Words from so far back that Cas had to pronounce some of them for him. Castiel couldn't read the rite, though, it had to come from a mortal. A child of God, not a messenger of God. And this wasn't just any old Old Latin Ritual. This was _the_ exorcism rite spoken from and prayed to by countless Roman Catholics to Michael, the Archangel of God. So, between, Castiel and Dean, there was only one person to perform such a spectacular rite.

Michael's vessel, of course.

But in all their planning, neither of them expected both dumber and dumbest to attack Cas. Dean felt his body being pushed away as the words started to fall from his lips, both guys were over Cas' body, the smaller one slamming the angel into the wall. Castiel retaliated, flying both of them to the other side of the room, smashing into the bricks of a small fireplace.

Second verse, same as the first. Dean was repeating the first line, getting ready for the meat of the exorcism when the big guy suddenly retched in pain. He turned his head, thick neck and all, eyes rolling from dark blue to charcoal in one blink. He stumbled away from his preferred prey and then lunged for Dean.

"Veni in auxilium hominum –" The first blow was all he really felt. There was no pain at first, it was all just numb. But he could hear it. Two blows to the right side of his face. One to the left. He tried to mumble out the words but garbled didn't even describe how they sounded. It was more like moans and groans. "Quos Deus" came out "Que Disssss." And he realized on the fourth hit – back to the right side of his face – that he was not only forgetting the words but starting to feel the pain. White flashes danced across his vision. _Don't pass out, man_. Dean blinked. Who was that? Must be Cas because it wasn't him. Dean was having a tough enough time concentrating let alone talking to himself. Everything was being saturated of color, evaporating in a wind-wheel, spinning in his periphery, taking him with it.

His left arm drifted up at one point. _Block, idiot_.

_I'm trying_, he thought. A lot of good it did. The damn demon grabbed his wrist and pulled everything back, towards the floor and the white spots lit on fire behind his eyelids, exploding in spots of red. Dean frowned. Ah, it was just blood spilling on the floor.

_Get it before it gets you, man_. Dean turned his head, his gaze following way up to the fist coming down. He felt something crunch inside of him then. The dude had a mean left and it had been making a nice soft spot in Dean's side. He opened his eyes sluggishly – well, his eye, the right one didn't seem to want to work right now – and tried to decide which vision of the demon was the real one. Double vision sucked. _MOVE!_

"I'm trying," he answered, the words surprisingly stringing together nicely in English, and the dude above him, straddling him like a cowgirl stopped a second, confusion staring back.

Dean smiled tightly, giving him his best fuck-you grin. He pulled out the knife – Ruby's knife – the only thing that she had given either brother that was of any use to them and plunged it into the bulky stomach.

_Oh, come on, Dean_. This time it was sung to him. _"When you fall down, I fall down."_

"Dude, shut-up with the singing."

"Dean?"

He was still on the floor he realized. That would explain the black shoe he was staring at. Dean looked up again, this time finding the trench coat, in perfect condition, not a tear or a wrinkle or a spot of anything on it. Castiel looked down at him, eyes steeled, concern everywhere, a hand open to him, reaching out.

Okay, now his face was burning, aching and his side was… he hissed through the pain as he tried to sit up, his right hand extending out and accepting the offer from Cas. The angel didn't pull, he let him do the work on his own. Slowly, slowly like running in sand, up and up until he was on his feet. The demon Dean had killed motionless on his left. The demon Castiel had bagged over by the fireplace. Well, his head was _in_ the fireplace. Dean met Cas' eyes for a brief second. Decided not to ask.

"Your eye –" Cas raised a hand up and Dean pulled away.

"It's fine."

"It's red." He retreated his hand, his gaze narrowed, still concerned. "It's full of blood."

Well, that would explain why he could barely see out of it and why it would scarcely open.

"Just broken blood vessels." Said like it was no big thing, happened to him before, he'd live.

"You okay to walk?" Another hand, this time on his arm. Dean didn't shake it off, though, he actually needed it as he took a step. Fucking demons. He took a breath, felt his lungs hitch with the effort. It felt all liquid inside, gooey, the blood surely sledging through his veins making his feet shuffle and his head bobble.

"I can walk," he snapped, pulling away from Cas. They had two options: Upstairs or Downstairs. And he knew there was no way whoever was left in the house didn't hear them when they entered. "Just keep the singing to yourself next time. You can't carry a tune. And stop with the Bono and his Merryfuckingmen."

Castiel followed a few steps behind him. "But I wasn't singing."

Dean almost turned around but then he felt something melt inside of him. It wasn't the pain or the goo or even his muscle tissue. It was more than that. More than obligation. _When you fall down, I fall down._ He coughed then, harsh and wet, felt his stomach turn as he spit out a hunk of scarlet from deep inside.

Blood. That was what he felt melting inside. And it had a name and it was a priority. It had always been his priority.

"Down," he said to Cas. "They have him in the basement."

WWW

Well now it was just a wonky, bizarro-world game of Red Light/Green Light. Except there was no other kids playing and he wasn't advancing anywhere.

"Answer me."

If he gave an answer that pleased, the invisible hold around his body eased. If he gave an answer that didn't please or just didn't give an answer at all, the hold tightened. And somehow the hold always knew when he was lying. He'd tried that one and it had almost gotten his spine snapped in two.

"I don't know." Which was the truth. The question had been: How many demons had he killed? Hell, he had no idea. "Lots."

The hold loosened a bit. He'd known how many vampires he had let live. He was able to name his second grade teacher when they lived in Fremont, IN and what the name of his soccer team was when they were in Duluth, MN. He remembered the first girl he had kissed. Cami Martindale. He remembered because Dean had teased him relentlessly for weeks following: "Sammy and Cami sitting in a tree. Something, Something, Something, Something… I.N.G!"

Sam had always wondered if Dean had forgotten the words or was implying they were doing something else besides kissing.

But that's how it was. The invisible hold would ask a question and Sam would answer it and he'd force himself to recall a memory of how it related to Dean. He was forgetting everything. He remembered Dad and that he was dead. He remembered Jess and if he opened his eyes he knew that other Jess would be there, still burning on the ceiling.

And he remembered Dean.

"Hey." It knew when he was thinking about him. It always knew. "What are you so afraid of? What do you think is going to happen?"

Sam didn't say anything to that. The hold tightened.

"You think… what? The world's going to end because of you?" The voice was soft, flowing thick like warm honey against his ear. "You think you're going to end man-kind?"

Nothing.

"Because it doesn't work like that, you know. There's lots of work to be done. Lots of power to be gained. Control to take." It paused. Sam could feel it breathe. He could smell sulfur radiating all around him. "You're afraid people will hate you? That… _he_ will hate you?"

Silence. The grip seized around him, stealing his breath. It was a different kind of pain, one that began from the inside. Sam closed his eyes, remembered a different place. A motel, wallpaper God-awful. Sitting on a bed, looking over at Dean… Dean who was mad at him and Sam saying he just wanted him to be his brother again. Because… another room. Getting slammed up against a wall, Dean's face in his, frantic… no, scared. Something about barely hanging on and that he was all he had. And outside a house… fire, Sam wanting to go back in and Dean not letting him.

"_If hunting this demon means you getting yourself killed, then I hope we never find the damn thing!"_

That. Right there. If Sam could hold on to that.

"Answer me. Don't… don't listen to that little devil on your shoulder."

Sam was done with childish games. He wasn't answering to anything anymore. He wasn't saying yes and if this thing wanted to keep him safe, keep his ticket to ride secure, it wouldn't kill him. No matter what he did.

So he shut his mouth. And the clutch that held him grew increasingly tight. Air exchange was getting shallow. He could feel the sparkles of stars decorate his vision. He breathed in, breathed out but it was getting so hard.

_Don't pass out, man_. He swallowed, talked calmly to himself. The pain shot up in intensity. Every part of his body was being encircled now. He tried to block it out, tried to breathe through it. _Block, idiot_.

It didn't do any good, though. He felt his body falling backwards. No. Not falling. He was being pulled backwards, downwards. He tried in vain to wiggle free then, could feel the cinching of the hold before he began. _Get it before it gets you, man._

But it had already got him. And deep down, Sam knew he deserved this. It was his punishment for all the people he'd let down. For all the people he couldn't save. For the one person he had murdered.

Because Sam didn't see it any other way. Sometimes there were things in life that there was no forgiveness for, regardless of what other people thought. He was a hero to some but there was one person who knew him only as a monster.

_MOVE!_ He thought. And he didn't know why he was thinking that. He couldn't actually move, maybe he meant his mind. His memories because that nurse screaming for her life, he suddenly saw her so clearly.

_I'm trying_, he heard a voice say. Oh, God… he tried to hold on to that. Anger and frustration slipping away, fire heating his face from above and he let it all melt away. Heart open, soul bared, remembered who had saved him. Who had loved him and pictured each of them –

His breath was lost, even the little baby breaths weren't working anymore. He had no room left to take in any air. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, could feel it crashing against his ribcage. He moved his body once, his eyes opened and he looked down.

It wasn't invisible anymore. Sam frowned. There wasn't just one set of arms holding him back, squeezing the life out of him. No, there were at least fifty hands and arms wrapped around every part of his body and they were all pulling him down with them, sinking him like an anchor into the unknown.

"Answer me." It requested again.

Sam pressed his lips together, kept them sealed tight and could feel the cool trickle of water against his feet as the hands tugged him under. That Jess was still above him, lit up in flames as Sam looked up at her from beneath the water and wasn't that odd?

_Oh, come on, Dean_. He shut his eyes. Remembered Dean racing in and taking out a psychotic doctor right before Sam's eye was scooped away. Dean beating the shit out of a couple of ghouls as Sam lay bleeding. Dean grabbing him in his arms and holding him while his heart slowed to a stop, knees sunken in the mud and, Jesus Christ… why did Dean do that? Why didn't he just let him fall? And then Sam knew and it was the last thing he thought: _When I fall down, you fall down_.

-TBC-

**A/N:** Next chapter should be up in about three-ish days. Still have to get it to the beta. Thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing I know it's the holidays and such a busy time, but your words have been like gifts under the tree!


	6. Words From Another Life

**Disclaimer:** Refer to Chapter One

**A/N:** Thanks so much to **MAZ101** for her wonderful beta-skills and for her amazing pick-me-up-skills as well. She truly is multi-talented. And for the rest of you? Away we go…

**Chapter Six: Words From Another Life**

It was a beautiful morning. Just, beautiful. Sam had just finished ordering a Non-Fat Mocha with an extra shot from his new favorite local Joe.

It was right around 7:00 a.m. and a bit too early for the new college student – his first class wasn't until 10:00 – but his cell phone had buzzed early that morning. A text from his brother, checking in, letting him know where there were. And to call. Always ended it with the request for Sam to call.

Sam never did, though. Hadn't called since his first week out here. Clean break. As clean as it could be.

But on this beautiful morning, it was the TV that suddenly had Sam's attention. It looked like a deleted scene from _Independence Day_ playing on the small screen behind the clerk. Sam stared, he studied the images – lost his breath, really – blindly handing over the seven dollars for the coffee, too stunned to even take his change, which the merchant finally just pocketed.

The World Trade Center in New York was on fire. A plane had crashed into it. Didn't make any sense, watching it burn. Sam shook his head, blew on his coffee, wondered what the hell the pilot was – HOLY SHIT! Right there! Right there on the screen! Another fucking plane!

Sam saw a red light flash as a second plane drove right into the other tower, fire and smoke replacing that portion of the damaged building. _Oh my God. We're at war._

He couldn't get out of there fast enough. Sam pushed his way through a gathering of people, hands over mouths, eyes wide as saucers, tears being wiped away. He couldn't watch them, couldn't think of war and blood and loss. Didn't want any part of it.

It was all so suffocating.

The day unraveled as he went from class to class, the teachers asking students to focus and not let the day's events interrupt their lessons of instantaneous velocity and fluid forces. So Sam concentrated on that. The instructors used 'normal'. Let's have a 'normal' day. So he tried it on for size. Hadn't quite squeezed into it, but he was getting a leg in.

He ignored all talk of the subject, which was hard. He got the gist – three planes had attacked the Country. Madmen, Warped Values, the Whodunits, the Who that was already staking claim. Everyone hated America and yet when he walked out his front door to take a jog around a nearby lake, he passed the World walking around him.

The jog quickly turned into a run. He thought of Dad and Dean. Had been fighting it all day. Wondered how they were, what they were thinking. Wondered how much Dad had already had to drink. He pushed on, rounding the lake – it was way bigger than it looked – knew they wouldn't go to New York. They'd stay away. Hell, everyone was staying away. Wished Dean would call now, just to say 'hey'. Knew it wouldn't happen because moments like this when Sam was _missing_ them, _worried_ about them, they never called.

A park bench off to his right looked like an oasis and Sam took it. His body flopped sloppily onto the far end breathless, frustrated, heart pounding in places he didn't even know he could feel his heart beat. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets and pressed hard. Could feel the cool plastic of his cell phone clipped to the inside pocket of his sweats. Wished it would ring.

It didn't, but he felt a soft hand on his arm, glanced up to see a Kleenex being offered to him. Sam's eyes drifted up. A large woman sat next to him, tissues in hand.

He accepted it. Wiped his face, his forehead, the back of his neck until it disintegrated in his hand.

There was another one being offered to him.

Sam smiled, took the second one. Wiped his eyes. "Thanks," he said, looking at her. She was dressed in dark pants, a dark short-sleeved shirt with a white under collar peeking out of the center. On her head she wore a coif. Or, as most people knew it – A Nun's Cap.

Sam noticed the tears. "Thank-you, Sister," he corrected himself. Gave her the respect that she had earned, that Dad had instilled that they follow through with. Being respectful didn't cause as much attention as being disrespectful. Dad made sure they knew every law officer rank, every military branch, every religious order.

She started talking then, not minding really who was next to her. Probably didn't matter. Could have been Forrest Gump. Sam watched the water ahead of them roll up in gentle waves. She was going on about how she use to teach at a Catholic School – girls, no less, and don't let it fool you – there were plenty of disciplinary problems with those young ladies. Ghost of a smile on her chubby cheeks. There had been one girl she had not forgotten. Unruly. Horrible. Just plain _wrong_. Sister had kicked her out, but had kept in touch with the family over the years, tracked the girl's progress. She took a hard road for a while, but finally seemed to get it together. Got married. Had a baby, a little boy. But today, Sister had been checking some of the early press reports and they had released some of the names of the victims. And, Oh, God… this young woman's husband had been on one of the planes. Started sobbing, soft cheeks quaking with blubber.

Sam noticed how she reached up with the tissue, dabbed her eyes, touched her lips affectionately, lingered there. She cleared her throat, looked at Sam – everything about her broken – and gave him a terrible smile. "Are you okay, young man?"

Sam blinked. When was the last time anyone had asked him that. He felt a rush of emotion swell in his throat.

She nodded, just like she knew. "Don't worry, dear, it may be the end of the world, but it's not your fault." And then maybe because he hadn't answered her or maybe because she was just plain curious, she asked, "And what do you think about the fourth plane?"

Sam tipped his head, found his voice. "What fourth plane?"

"The one that crashed into the field in Pennsylvania."

"What?" And Sam was running again, flipping his phone open, checking his text messages, one still sitting in his inbox, received too early that morning to pay much attention to: _Headed to BFE PA. Plz call. Plz. D._

Sam highlighted the number and hit send. He ran a short distance and turned, ran back to the park bench for more information. The nun was gone, must have moved on down the path. Sam sat down for a second, stared at the blank screen. He'd already called Dean thirteen times with no answer. He'd called Dad eleven, but the no answer he'd gotten there wasn't much of a surprise. His mind switched to overdrive wondering – always with the wondering – where in Pennsylvania were they? Had they driven to the crash site after hearing about it? What were they hunting? Were they thinking of him? Did they take silver rounds because silver killed just about anything? Why did Dean text that morning of all mornings? Was he afraid? Sam's hand clutched his chest for a brief second. Felt every crack open up deep inside.

Then he tried the number again_. Fucking voicemail_. Tried Dad. _Goddamn Dad_. Ran a small distance and back to the bench again. Wasn't getting anywhere that was for sure. Started to press the send key for the fifteenth time when he heard "Oh My God!" and looked up. There! Quite a distance out in the lake was a woman dressed in black, her arms thrashing above her head as she bobbed on the surface. She looked like a killer whale diving for fish.

Sam set his phone down on the bench and leapt for the water. People crowded around, most of them already on their cells, dialing 911, which freaked Sam out as it was 9/11. He raced into the water, swam to where he had last saw her and dove down, searching. It took him too long, too many minutes ticked by, could already hear the wail of the ambulance when he snagged his fingers on hair. He swam deeper, reached her body and pulled up. Air too tight, lungs begging for mercy as he broke free with a gasp and an arm full of dead weight. Thank God for the surfers and jet-skiers, meeting him halfway, lugging her body on the back of one of the riders and taking her back to the waiting EMT's.

Sam dog-paddled for a few seconds, breath uneven, everything hurting.

He heard the familiar ring on his phone then. Some Mary J. Blige song that he knew Dean would hate. _Dean_. Oh, God, Sam took off towards the shore when suddenly he felt a hand wrap around his ankle and yank him back. Hard. The water suddenly filled his mouth, entered his nose and then he was resurfacing again.

_Stop_, he told himself.

Sam shook his head. What was wrong with him? He opened his eyes, seemed like he was underwater, but not. He was breathing, but he couldn't see. This was his memory. He was hardly remembering anything correctly now but this was flowing and he didn't want it to end. He still couldn't remember the ball-cap guy's name and it was right on the tip of his tongue. Could barely remember what Dad looked like, what he smelled like… but this, this was his memory. This had happened. Only, back when it was real, nothing had grabbed his ankle. No, back then, he remembered – he had swam back to the shore, he'd gotten out of the water, ran through the sand. He had reached his phone…

He felt the tug on his ankle again and looked down. There was hand gripping it like Sam was a lifeline and it was pulling him down. It was hard to process. Was it real? Was it a dream? Was it part of the memory?

Then another hand reached up and they pulled together. He hardly had time to take in a breath and Sam realized rather quickly that, yep, it was real.

WWW

They didn't hear it until they had reached the kitchen. The distinct _boomboom_ of a bass, vibrating the floor as they moved ahead, making the linoleum unusually difficult to walk on. The door to the basement dead ahead, a silver gleam of the knob guiding them to exactly where they needed to be. Dean's hand reached out, grabbed the handle and started to twist. The door gave a light squeak but he knew they wouldn't hear it, not over the music. He doubted anyone had even heard the scuttle from the living room moments before.

No, he decided, they were entering this undetected. 'Bout fucking time they caught a break.

_Pressure! Pushing down on me, pressing down on you…_

Well, for freaky ass demons inhabiting creepy ass humans, they sure had decent taste in music.

Dean started the silent slink down the basement steps, favorite Colt clutched in his right hand – perfect fit like an old catcher's mitt – his left hand briefly coming up to wave Castiel to follow as his index finger pressed against his lips.

Sometimes that goddamned angel chose the most inopportune times to start flapping his jaw. Dean smirked to himself thinking of Cas flapping his jaws instead of his wings. Wondered which moved faster.

Castiel, though, nodded back. Met Dean's gaze. Ready. Ready for whatever Dean told him to do. Like Dean had been with Dad. Loyal. Faithful. Blood Hound. Bulldog, St. Bernard. German Shepherd. Retriever. Shorthair. Whatever. He was Guard-Dog ready.

Dean looked away. Broke that connection fast and pushed back how screwed up that little part of being John Winchester's son had made him. He had a whole string of those little things strewn like beads around his collar. Pulled too tight and soon they started to choke.

_It's the terror of knowing what this world is about, Watching some good friends scream 'Let me Out'…_

The air seemed to become more dense as they climbed down, pressing in from all directions. It made Dean's eye pound with each step, his side yelping as his hip connected with the thigh bone. Everything wanting to crash down like icicles falling from a roof.

Dean's shook his head, cursed himself for feeling the hurt. _Focus, dammit_. He took another step down, boots planted firmly, silently, the sound absorbing into the background music. He couldn't hear Cas, didn't look behind him. For all he knew the angels was just hovering over the stairs, floating down on his own accord. He had his sneaky ways, Dean had his.

Unfortunately, being able to see this high up was a disadvantage. An overhang from above blocked his view until he was about three quarters the way down. Off to his left he was the chair Party had been sitting in during his interrogation. Straight ahead would have been the chair he had been tied to except it was upstairs now. It was a small room and there were candles burning _everywhere_.

The air hit him violently as he descended. Low, stuffy, oxygen deprived. So airless it was almost like a punishment. Like being confined in a small box. A coffin.

Another step. Saw pink sparkly cowgirl boots up ahead. Swallowed hard, felt his ears pop with the movement. Another step. Up the calf to the thigh – short denim skirt, ripped at the sides, slit up the back. Another step, this one creaked, he could feel it under him. Stopped. Gun steady pointing directly ahead. Party's rear was to him, not flinching to his presence, but bopping to the music. Oblivious. And staring beyond where Dean had originally been seated.

Huh. When he had been held captive, he hadn't checked behind him for any doors or other rooms. He thought all that was behind him was just another dingy wall. He took another step. Saw Trash was standing next to Party, both looking down, over the shoulder of… ducked his head as he took one more stair… Trampoline. Who was crouched down over a well.

Dean blinked. He could see Sam's legs sprawled out on the cement floor, barefoot, relaxed like he was sleeping. Couldn't see his brother's chest or head. Tramp had them submerged in the water of the well. One second he'd let Sam up so he could splutter and splash and then down he'd go, Tramp forcefully holding him under.

Dean started to react. Felt his heart dislodge and plummet to his feet, snagging his stomach with it. Everything sliding downwards, taking Dean with it.

He was gonna kill these motherfuckers.

A solid hand landed on his shoulder then and the room tilted to the right and the left, leveling itself. Dean could feel the weight shift behind him as Castiel drew close, voice so low Dean could barely hear him, words spoken so delicate, Dean couldn't even feel the breath against his neck.

"It's a Baptism, Dean," he explained. "That water is not Holy. It's not even water. It's molten, from the bowels of Hell. It is foul. Flammable. Full of the blood of every soul changed from light to dark. The first, of course, being Lucifer himself. Very few of these wells exist."

Dean was still. Quiet. Letting his eyes adjust to the layers of nastiness. He could see the swish of a cat tail against Tramp's thigh. His gaze lifted. Saw the decomposing body of an eleven-year-old boy. Had dark eyes, but not black. And they were glued on Dean. There was a sadness pouring out of them he couldn't quite place, but it was familiar. He'd seen that look a lot throughout his years.

"The well is also filed with hundreds of demons." Dean tilted his head towards Cas, ear to lips. "They can't get out but they can pull you in. All of them…" Cas paused, thinking of how to chose his words, Dean knew. "All of them want to have the chance just to touch your brother." Dean glanced over, found Castiel's crystal blue eyes beaming like lasers. "Kind of like the Catholics with the Pope. Or screaming girls with that movie star vampire."

Cas looked away, eyes skating to what was left of the boy. Dean followed. "The witness has to be pure. Chosen. Every deal has to have a seal. This? This is a Baptism. An initiation." Dean felt cold at the words, at the sight. It looked more like a college hazing. "If Sam says yes tonight, Lucifer may need a witness to…" Another heavy pause. "Marry them together."

Dean stopped breathing. Castiel was instantly aware. His hand gripped Dean's shoulder a little, bringing him back to reality. "When two become one."

Aw, fuck. This was a ceremony. A proposal. This was 'D' Day. All the devil needed was to find Sam. Set a trap. Have a posse and lay out the place cards.

It was, in many ways, a seduction.

WWW

Sam spat, sputtered, water spouting from his mouth. It was sickening. One minute, he was drowning, the next he was gasping for breaths. He could hear the _thumpthump_ of a bass, swore he was catching riffs of electric guitars and bass guitars, wails of saxophones and… banjos? And then he'd be under the water again, fighting for his life.

Other times, he'd be pulled under the water, hands everywhere and he could actually hold his breath as long as needed. Or maybe he was breathing, he wasn't sure. Didn't know if he wanted to know because when that happened, it was worse than when he was drowning. And the sound he heard then where low whispers, taunts and raves and Sam could see eyes looking at him that weren't human and yet, they wanted him.

He felt the hands release again and up his body raised to the surface just in time for him to break through and take in a lung full of air. He looked around. Straight ahead of him was a shore with a sandy beach, paramedics surrounding what was left of an orca, trying to revive it. Sam blinked long and slow, reached up with a free hand and wiped the water away.

It wasn't a whale or a dolphin. It was that nun.

And then Sam could hear his phone ring. He started swimming. His arms pumped harder, faster, but the sand and the orca seemed to get further and further away.

Sam breathed, spit out extra saliva, felt his heart race, galloping along with his paddling arms. _This isn't how it goes_, he thought. _I reached my phone. I pushed send. I heard…_

_Goddammit!_ Sam was being twirled around in the middle of the lake, hands on his legs and under he went.

WWW

"He has to say no," Cas breathed. "Let the devil catch you but by a single hair, and you are his forever."

Yeah, those were the words Dean didn't want to hear. Forever. Not when it came to this. _I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. _He took the last step. Concrete. Fucking Ground Zero. Colt melding into his hands.

"Trampoline will be the officiant, of sorts," he heard Cas saying, still close. "And the other two men, Trash and Party, he'll use as servants. Make sure everything goes smoothly."

Dean stopped, head turning, eyes in questions. Two _men_?

Cas shrugged. "I can only see humans the way God made them originally, Dean."

Looking back to the well, Dean let his eyes travel the rest of the way up Party's body. Skirt slit in the back, purple tank top – even from the sides it was evident that there wasn't much in the boob department, although he could see bra straps teasing her shoulders. Long neck, striking Adam's apple. Real tall for a girl. Maybe a bit of chin stubble visible as Dean eased up. "Son of a bitch," he whispered.

That was all it took. Trash and Party spun like circus performers, hands out, defensive stance, rocking on their heels. The music ceased to exist, the room filling with only the sounds of rubber soles scuffing on concrete. Trash swiped his hand up, like a blade, attempting to throw Dean across the room into the cinder blocks behind him. One push from Cas, though, and the move was thwarted.

Dean opened his mouth, cocked his Colt. "Veni in auxilium hominum, quos Deaus creavit inexterminabile…" He was in front of Party, her body writhing in pain, arms folded across her abdomen. Castiel was on his left, trying to deal with Trash. Tramp was just beyond, a low growl emerging from his throat, shoving Sam back in the water. Dean didn't miss any of it. "Et ad imaginem…"

Party suddenly lunged towards him, fingers spread apart, right hand wrapping around Dean's throat. Castiel elbowed her, but it was Trash's turn to block as he hit the angel from below, toppling him to the floor.

Party's breath was rapid and shallow, smelled rank against Dean's skin. She squeezed tighter, came in close and raised her eyebrows. "Sinner," she murmured and forcefully brought her face against his, her lips parting Dean's as she held him by this throat and kissed him hard.

Dean's breath was already lost, he only had a small reserve held in his mouth. She sucked him dry of it and parted from him, his face turning blue, his lips still pink. Careless, he thought. She was so interested in his lips, she'd forgotten to watch his hand. Dean's left hand fumbled to his waistband and came up with the Knife, ramming it as deep as he could into Party's sternum. She let out a quick gasp, alarmed at the shocking pain as her body lit up, showing the skeleton under her skin.

"Oh!" she yelped, hand dropping and Dean took a breath, leaned into the motion, sinking the knife to the hilt, pushing it down until he could feel the warmth of blood – demon blood – spill to the floor. Party's hands came around trying to protect herself one last time but all she accomplished was keeping her intestines partially inside her.

She almost melted to the floor as Dean pushed her away, felt his chest fill with hard breaths, watching as the cruel face disappeared, leaving behind soft features of a troubled person. Not understanding her whole story, but knowing so much of it was filled with anger and self-loathing. Lies and murder.

Dean surprised himself; he kind of pitied her. Knew there was a certain innocence within everyone that can never be recaptured, no matter how hard they try. No matter who they attempt to me. He cringed, looking at her. "Sorry, Lola."

The rush behind him, scurrying and crashing, fists hitting jaws that sounded like boulder vs. boulder had Dean turning around. Cas was giving one hell of a beating and taking one, too. The angel could hold his own in a demon-bar fight that was for sure. Not a scratch on either one and Dean was prepared to step in and take out the Trash, but there was a gurgling from the well and priorities were priorities.

Dean circled, had two steps in as he looked across the small room. Tramp was on his knees, hands on Sam's shoulders, chanting something in a low, sinister voice. Sam's head had disappeared again into the liquid muck. Dean could see small, grayish hands reaching up from below, touching, yanking, groping his brother's body. And Sam looked so serene.

He missed the gleam of the cat's eyes as he approached Tramp, knife held above his head, ready to strike. All he saw was a quick blur to his right and the old Tabby's claws making purchase with his cheek. He would have yelped if he could've. Would have shot the damned cat if it would have done any good. He felt his body crumble at his waist, folding over, hands over his head, protecting. Pissed him off. Fucking cat. He looked up and saw the round black eyes shift to elliptical, and the cat pounced on him, digging its nails into Dean's shoulder. This time Dean couldn't help but let out a small cry of pain. He could feel the sharp sting immediately and the tabby held on. Dean swatted at it, backing up to the wall where an altar of candles was proudly displayed.

Almost there.

His feet sped up until he was right next to the flames, the matted, dirty fur igniting easily from the cat's back. A grotesque howl filled the room, somewhere between feline and canine and Dean's right hand cupped his ear to protect it.

Claws retracted and the fiery cat fell from above, trying desperately to race the flames away. But it wasn't fast enough. And no one – or apparently nothing – could enter the well. The demon cat spun into a frenzy, chasing flames and tail until its legs started to give.

"You just can't do anything the easy way, can you?" The tone was as flat as an Iowa cornfield.

Still, it startled Dean a bit. He could see Cas out of his periphery, wearing down Trash to his left. The cat was ahead of him, wheezing and grumbling. Party was laying to the right, dead like an angel in devil's shoes. And Tramp was standing near her, next to the well, holding Sam across him like a shield, gun in his left hand, a homemade dagger in his right. A Dirk, Dean remembered. Made for the three S's: short, sharp, shock.

Dean moved. One step.

"I wouldn't," Trash warned.

Dean stalled, mid-step. Took in a stifling breath, let it all out at once. "I hope you're straight with your Jesus." And dashed in, Knife at shoulder's height, Colt exploding three quick bullets out of the chamber. One to the demon's head… Tramp's hold loosened… One to its right shoulder… Sam falling from his grip… One to its motherfucking chest.

WWW

_Damn, the sun is bright_. And apparently, setting because it was changing from yellow to a beautiful orange. Sam felt his breath hitch, stuck in the middle of the lake, staring at the shore. He could hear the EMT's talking, could hear the crowd's murmurs, could hear his phone ringing.

He started to paddle. Slow, strides, taking his time, not losing his breath. Quietly, not letting anyone see him, just under the radar. Sam could feel the bottom of the lake start to greet his feet. Realized that if he stood now, that he could walk. The sand was slick, like squelchy mud under his feet, spewing between his toes. He walked sluggishly, not worrying about the gathering of activity, knew they were discovering that the old nun had tied rocks to her bare feet. She'd unlaced her shoes to do it. They'd find them just to the side of the park bench. Sam never did figure that one out. She'd committed suicide but when he'd seen her in the water, she was thrashing like she was fighting it.

Maybe she'd caught a glimpse of something beneath the waves. Something that was so dark she actually changed her mind about death and decided living would be the better alternative.

Sam pushed the thoughts back. No point in trying to figure it out now. Wherever the hell 'now' was. He just kept walking and let the ring of his cell set his pace.

"Sam."

Sam looked up, saw a white light not far from him, skipping on the water, smiling. He would have probably missed it had it not been for the teeth. They were sharp, fang-like, vicious. He looked away, kept walking. _I got to my phone…_

"Answer me."

_I picked it up, hit send_.

"What are you afraid of?"

Sam felt a hand wrap around his ankle. He stumbled, felt his body fall forward, caught himself, righted again. _It may be the end of the world, but it's not your fault_. Started walking again.

"You're a coward."

_It was Dean on the other end_. The phone suddenly rang louder, like it was right next to his ear. Sam shoved on, away from the hold, away from the voice.

"Sam."

"No," Sam growled out, watching the shore line as it got closer.

"Answer me."

"No." It was his answer.

The sand was upon him, then, his eyes focused on the park bench as he now found himself running to it. He picked up his phone, hit send and waited.

"Sam?"

Sam's arm reached out and located the arm of the bench, sat his ass down as fast as he could. Eyes closed and he tried to hold back the tears. He honestly wasn't sure if it was going to be Dean's voice he heard when he finally picked up the phone. Felt a sob catch on his vocal chords as he realized it was. Dean repeated his name, this time firmer, calmer in an _I'm here, I'm here_ tone.

Sam still couldn't respond. His head dropped in his left hand and he let his fingers grab his own hair, pulled hard, to feel something but this pain because this was almost unbearable.

"Sammy, you okay?"

Oh, God. He didn't even know where to begin to answer that.

"We're okay," Dean continued. "Dad and I. He's here. With me. We're okay."

Sam nodded, raised his head. The white light shone back. "Dean," he whispered. But that was wrong because before he had never spoken a word. He couldn't.

"We miss you, Sam."

"Dean." Sam's voice jumped up an octave, he willed the light away.

"When you're ready, you call back. Okay, man?"

Sam batted at the light. _ShooShoo!_ But it just danced around, a ball of fire on its tail.

"Dean, I –"

"You know I'm always…" Dean's voice broke off and Sam pressed the phone to his ear. This was where the call was going to end – Sam yelled his brother's name into the receiver as loud as he could. There was a long pause and then, "Well, you know, just take care."

And just like that, he was gone.

WWW

Maybe it was the motion of slipping or the fact that he wasn't imprisoned any longer, but as he approached, Dean could see Sam's head bob up, his eyes narrowing and the small, "Dean" that escaped his lips, making him sound like he was twelve and their world consisted of the Impala and Dad and fighting ghosts and shtrigas. It was like a buckshot to his heart, not meant to kill, just to maim. He slowed, his feet moving like molasses, running in sand, going nowhere.

He wasn't afraid of this demon or any of the supernatural cockroaches that roamed the earth. He wasn't afraid of going to hell or going to heaven. He wasn't afraid of spiders or cats or falling in love or falling out. But what he was afraid of was what the fuck these stupid asses had done to his brother.

The thought alone was enough to make him want to lose control. "Dean." But that small squeak of his name, was said with recognition. And Dean evened out. Found his control. Kept his eye on the bear.

"I don't want to kill you, but if you force me," Tramp cocked his head, locked eyes with Dean. "Just don't go being Superman."

Dean really didn't give a damn anymore. His lip was curling over his teeth. He felt all jumpy inside. Two steps. Knife to the atrium or whatever was beyond and get Sam the fuck out! "Not trying to be anybody's Superman."

"Good." Tramp readjusted his grip on Sam, pulled him up straight, cheek to cheek. Let the brothers get a good look at one another. It was an odd feeling being opposite each other, almost like Sam was _with_ Tramp. Like when he was with Ruby. Against Dean. Fists back, throwing punches. Words tangling like ropes, nooses around their necks.

Tramp gave Dean an eat-shit-and-die grin. Fastened his arm around Sam's chest and pressed him close. Then turned his head to look at Dean's brother like he was the last cookie and all the bad guys wanted him.

Finally, after all this fight and death and not being able to catch his breath, Dean felt his body break out in a sweat.

"Dean." His gaze skimmed over to Sam. His brother was drenched in water; arms bound in front, shoulder bloody, blue and purple circles under his eyes, his clothes torn where hands had grabbed at him. Scrapes. Scratches. Dean swallowed. "Get me outta here."

Not leave. Not go. Not _don't_. But, help. Sam was asking for help.

Dean raced the two steps. He heard Sam take in a breath as his elbow came up and jabbed Tramp in the gut. He watched in sheer horror as Tramp's right hand turned the Dirk to its side, slicing it across Sam's abdomen like it was carving into a Thanksgiving turkey.

He didn't know if he screamed or shouted but Sam was falling out of Trampoline's arms and Dean was over the demon, the Knife gripped tight, Tramp's hand wrapped around Dean's wrist, tighter. Tramp started to push back, Dean feeling the momentum he held in his arm start to quiver. It was an arm wrestling championship game at its best and someone had to top the other. Except when they did, Dean was a dead man.

And then she appeared behind Tramp. In a dead boy's body. Skin frayed, peeling back, parts of skull exposed, fingers like a skeleton, lips like charcoal. Her dark eyes filled his sockets, though, and the essence of who she had been filled his vessel. Both of them killed by the same thing in front of them. Her when it was a man and him after the demon had suited up.

Two birds, one stone.

She dipped her fingers into the well and then turned to her side, lighting them up from the candles on the altar. Liquid iron, tainted blood; she stood behind Tramp's body as he wrestled Dean for the knife.

Dean glimpsed once at her as she heaved her fingers, her hands, her arms into Tramp's body. The surprise lit up his black eyes for a millisecond. He struggled for a breath, not finding one, and thrashed in an immovable hold. His eyes slowly dimmed in front of Dean, hand going limp as his body fell like Jell-O to the floor.

Right next to Sam. Dean went down to his knees, pulled Sam away from the sight, getting him as far away as possible until Dean felt Castiel at his back. Eyes to the left, Trash was finally down. Eyes straight ahead, Mary – and Mickey – blinked back.

"They wronged us," she said, voice gravelly and bizarrely pubescent. She walked over to Party, bones and vertebra making a clickety-clack noise, looked down at the lifeless body and reached into her shirt. Quietly pulling at her bra, she removed two circular shapes. Had once a long time ago been quite the money maker. Big and perky and _hers_. She looked at Dean and nodded. "Thank-you for bearing witness." With a blink, she exited little Mickey's body, letting it drop to the cement with the rest of the dead.

Dean's hands were covered in blood. Sam's shirt was soaked through, his jeans already absorbing patchy puddles of red. He felt his body shake. Really wasn't sure if it was he or Sam, but kinda figured it was both of them.

"What is that?" Sam asked, all soft and young, like it belonged to Sammy, not Sam.

"You're bleeding." Dean pulled his own shirt off, pressed it against the bloody abdomen.

"No, I mean… is there a light near my eye?"

Dean could hear Sam rambling, but he was already shouting at Cas behind him. "Can you fix this?"

And Castiel actually looked scared. Definitely looked helpless as he shook his head _No_ and Dean was nodding back – Plan B. "Go upstairs, find our goddamn boots and start up the Impala." Order Up. Cas was already moving, but it all felt like it was all in slow motion.

Sam was babbling on about a white glow as Dean turned his brother's head so he could see him. Everything about him just looked wrong. "There are, uh, candles, Sam." Dean let out a rush of obscenities, stringing words together that didn't even belong, making fragrant new curse words in the process. He leaned over the wound, bringing more of his weight on top of it. "You're just catching spots from the flames."

"Everyone's burning," Sam mumbled and Dean glanced up, caught Sam staring back, face ashen in the faint light.

Dean felt a pang in his side just then, his breath caught in the awkward space between lungs and ribs and he wished for a second that he could let go of Sam's stomach and maybe hold his hand or pat his back. Give him some kind of reassurance because he fucking sucked when it came to words. "You're an idiot, you know that?" Felt actual tears behind his eyes. Tried to smile instead.

No smile was returned; Sam just stared at him like he was dreaming. Like if he blinked, Dean would go away.

"Nothing to be scared about, man." And Dean wanted to hit himself. Grab some duct tape and just tape his mouth shut with layers and layers of shit-silver tape. Sam would need a knife to free him of it. Freaking _talking_. Why did they have –

"I'm not scared." Meant it. Said it with a grin. Even showed his teeth and his left-side dimple.

Dean nodded, watched as Sam let his eyes close.

"And I'm not an idiot."

Which made Dean chuckle and he felt a small tear prick out of his right eye. Sniffed hard, put a stop to that right now. Sam seemed to relax, shoulders going all-loose, wrinkles melting away. "I know you're not," he said. Like he knew that Sam needed to grow up. And that together they had started the apocalypse. That he was older and Sam was younger and he wasn't responsible for him anymore. And yet they were both responsible for each other. For the mess that they made. For keeping each other human. Keeping each other alive.

A leap of faith, Cas had said. Was the answer really as simple as they just had to believe in the other? Mindful, thoughtful, heartful, soulful? It was too easy. And way too hard.

Sam opened his eyes and peered up at him. "I see a white light when I shut my eyes." Paper soft, transparent and scared, despite his contradiction.

Dean swallowed. "Okay, we'll… we'll figure it out." His gaze dropped to the blood. His brother was more afraid of an invisible light than bleeding to death and that didn't make Dean feel good at all. "One thing at a time, okay?"

Sam just stared at him. Fucking words.

Dean titled his head, scratched his chin on his shoulder. "Okay, then."

"Is it bad?" Sam waited on his brother's response and when he didn't get one, "It sure feels bad."

So Dean shook his head, muttered words from another life. "It's not that bad."

And Sam nodded.

Castiel was clomping back down the stairs. Mission accomplished and Cas' hand felt like something he could lean on as he grabbed Dean's arm. Human and angel eyes, full attention, all on his brother.

Dean cleared his throat. "Ready to get out of here?"

Sam gave a weak smile. "Absofuckinglutely."

-TBC-

**Playlist:** _Under Pressure_ performed by Queen featuring David Bowie

**A/N:** If any of you'd like to leave me a note and let me know what you thought, I promise, I'll send you one back!


	7. Safety Pin

**Disclaimer: **Refer to Chapter One

**A/N: **We're almost there. I wanted to say thanks to those for reading and reviewing. A few years ago while trying to get pregnant with my first child, I found that I had a cancerous tumor in my uterus. Easy pick, localized, took out in one trip. Easy-Schmeasy. No sign of it again. Then right before I went to the SPN Con in Chicago this past November, I found out that 'they' were back and had spread to my cervix. Not the greatest thing. So after I returned, I started treatment and I have to say these past couple of months have been kind of horrible. And I've wanted to kill everyone at different times – my husband, my best friend, one of the kids, our cat… me. Of course, I never would actually kill anyone let alone put a gun inside of myself and pull the trigger but sometimes that's exactly what it feels like is happening. So, this story was pretty dark and icky and if I offended you, I'm sorry. I needed my release, I guess.

**BETA LOVE:** the fabulous **MAZ101**. Big Love to her. She's a gem, that one.

**Chapter Seven: Safety Pin**

**Shock:** a sudden and violent blow or impact. _Or_, a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or… sensi-what was it? Oh yeah, sensi-sensi-bilities.

Which was a bunch of bullshit because he knew where he was: in the fucking car. Backseat, to be exact. And Dean was behind him, arms wrapped around Sam's middle trying to keep his blood from messing up the interior. The angel dude – couldn't quite get his name, it was right there – Sam sucked in a breath, thought about it, let it go – the angel dude was driving the car.

Which seemed to make Dean very nervous because he was shouting all sorts of crazy obscenities at him.

"Not in sh-shock," Sam corrected his brother. _Duh_.

He could feel Dean's neck swivel, was looking down at him. Sam could tell because Dean's chin rested on top of his head. Thought he said something, but Sam was really only catching bits and pieces of the conversations between the dude – wore a trench coat – and his brother.

"Lost a lot of blood," the guy was saying. "Confusion, maybe."

**Confusion:** the lack of clearness or distinctness; i.e.: a confusion in his mind between right and wrong.

And suddenly Sam could remember being on a roadside, Impala slammed into gear, Dean circling him, Sam saying he was a whole new level of freak and Dean asking him if he even knew the difference between right and wrong anymore.

He felt his stomach turn.

Dean's arms kind of tightened then. Sam felt pressure constrict from above. That was weird. He blinked, didn't realize his eyes had been closed. Looked around. It was night. They must have been on a highway or something with streetlights because every other second, the Impala would briefly ignite in a slanted light and then grow dark again.

"Stay in the center," Dean growled. "You're getting too close to the edge."

**Edge:** a brink or a verge. _Or_, the lead guitarist for U2. Ranked #24 on _Rolling Stones 100 Greatest Guitarist of All Time_.

"You're not making sense," Dean was saying and Sam's eyes flew to the back of the driver's head. There was some rumble-rumble of voices going on around him, some the dude's, some Dean's, some his own. Didn't really know what he was even saying.

"Just drive on by," Dean commanded. "I'd love a hospital, but we have to stay under the radar."

**Love:** a feeling of warm, personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend. Or, a brother.

"I'll just have to see what I can patch him up with from the First Aid Kit."

**First:** being before all others with respect to time, order, rank, importance; i.e.: first edition, first president, first… born.

"Hey." There was distinct tapping on Sam's cheek. He blinked, eyes opening. Still in the Impala. Funny how everything seemed to be whizzing by him. Except time. Time stood still. Dean had repositioned him, though, he was cradled more in the crook of his brother's elbow, his chin tilted so when he opened his eyes, he found Dean's gaze, caught in the silver from passing cars and street lamps. "Stop closing your eyes. You need to stay awake, dickwad."

**Dickwad:** an asshole, an idiot, a worthless piece of shit, an assbag, a dumbass...

"Yeah, okay," Dean suddenly spoke up. "Maybe that was a little harsh." Then there was more tapping and Sam blinked again. "No, no, no… keep talking."

Sam shifted. His legs were all crammed into the floorboard. Felt like pretzels. "Hmmm… not talking."

Dean huffed his response. "Dude. You've told me every definition from quantum physics to socialites to Scooby Dooby Doo. You won't fucking shut up." And then softer, almost encouraging, "Which you shouldn't, just keep talking."

Damn streetlights. Sam glanced up, caught Dean staring back. His eyes looked gray in the dark but when the cab of the Chevy lit up, Sam could see the fear for a half a second. "I told you 'bout physics?"

"And all its branches and theories? Yeah, I'm debriefed."

"And Scooby Doo?"

"You never liked Scrappy. When you were little, you thought if we had the Mystery Machine, that it'd be cool because we could sleep in it. Save money on motel rooms."

Sam frowned. Dean came close to smiling, but it died along the way.

"I wanted a dog," Sam said like this was _news_.

"I know." Dean nodded. "A boxer. You mentioned it."

Sam fell quiet for a few moments. He watched as Dean looked out the window, told the driver to take the next right, mumbled something about almost being there. Saw him swallow hard, his throat moving up and down like he had ingested something whole. Looked back down and met Sam's eyes.

"Think it's… messing with my memories." Exhaled, felt all the air leave his body. Admission was a scary thing, denial was so much safer.

Dean nodded. "You remembered a whole bunch, Sam, you just keep talking to me, 'kay?"

"Is it still here?" He hadn't seen it – the white light, fanged or smiling or toothless or whatever – for quite a while.

Dean shrugged. Sam felt his body move with the motion. "You tell me, Sam."

The Impala was turning a corner at a red light. What's his name was saying there was spot open by their door and Dean told him to take it, but kept his eyes on Sam.

"I tell you I'm not in shock?" His voice was so steady, so easy that Sam actually was starting to doubt that. He should be screaming in agonizing pain, should be freaking out that his guts were close to spilling out into Dean's hands. Should be…

"Yeah, you told me."

They were stopped now and Sam heard the driver side door open and close. Familiar creak. Sam felt tears clog his throat. Stared at Dean. "I'm not a dickwad." He could hear the motel door swing open and then Dean's door was slowly jostling.

"Told you, dude. It was harsh of me." Another swallow. "Sorry."

Something tickled the corner of Sam's periphery then. "Dean."

There was the grumble of another voice behind them and Dean was turning his head. He was talking to the other guy, trying to decide how best to get Sam out of the car and into the room. Sam watched Dean's jaw move, listened to his voice through his chest, did what he could to forget about that damned white light.

Dean glanced back down and started to say something about their next strategic move, but he stopped when he saw Sam. The younger brother figured that maybe the older brother's instincts had kicked into high gear. Dean was a professional hunter, an amazing marksman, threw knives a hundred yards out just for fun. And don't get Sam started on what the man could do in a snowball fight. Still had a welt on his back from when he was fifteen. Dean always hit his target. But, above all of this, he was an expert older brother.

"Sam? You with me?"

Sam could see the white light starting to get bigger, taking up more room in his field of vision.

"Come on, tell me about the firsts again."

Sam blinked and felt everything slide down like ice melting on a too-warm window. He wondered what else he'd told Dean. Did he tell him he knew the difference between right and wrong and that he was sorry. Did he tell him the Edge was an awesome guitarist, but Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton still trumped him? Did he tell him about Dad and Jess and brothers and that he knew the definition of love –

"Yeah, Sam, you told me." Felt a muscle flex near him. Dean gripping something. Felt warm and cold at the same time. What the hell?

Sam stared. Seconds, maybe, and it was lights out – or, in his case, lights on – and he was scared. _Hold on_, he told himself. Sight. Hearing. Smell. Taste. Touch_. Hold on. Don't take your eyes off him_.

A head popped in next to Dean's shoulder. Cory? Jerry? Took one brief look at Sam and sternly suggested, "We need to move him now."

Sam felt his mouth tick up. "Jimmy," he whispered in recognition. And wondered why Dean was looking at him so concerned. Wanted to ask, but damn if that light wasn't leading him away.

WWW

In all honesty, he really hated this.

It wasn't the blood or the physical weight he had to tow. It was the fact that Sam was hurt and he had to take care of him because there was no one else. It was the thought that a few weeks ago, Dean had _let_ Sam leave. Just let him walk away like he didn't matter. He hated the fact that he actually pretended, made himself believe, that he didn't matter. He'd fought for so long before to keep Sam in his life – even when he had Dad there – and then he just watched him hitch a ride.

Maybe today was the day that Dean would feel it: guilt. Yes, so much of where they were now, why they were there, was Sam's fault. Yes, he chose a demon, of all things, over his own brother. Yes, he started the end of the world.

It was Sam's fault. And it was Dean's. He broke in Hell. Couldn't take it any longer and by God that was what it took to get the ball rolling. Sam? Well, Sam didn't break. He caved. Craved. Got stronger. Turned. And now he was on the comeback tour.

But it was words spoken to a little half-demon boy that Dean heard Sam say that made him rethink his own actions. He had hope for that kid. Hope that he _used_ to have for himself. In all the confusion and romping and Lucifer being sprung and angels riding on their coattails, Dean hadn't really noticed that – Sam didn't hold hope for himself anymore.

He'd lost his light somewhere in all that dark.

And Dean wondered when he had lost his hope in Sam, too.

'Passed Out' would not have been the appropriate term to describe what Sam did when they took him out of the car. In fact, he looked like death warmed over. Just a heartbeat away from whatever lay beyond.

Dean gave specific instructions to Cas. Strip the bed. Told him where the First Aid Kit was, what supplies he needed from the bathroom. He made a list of things. Castiel would have to leave and gather it on his own, that is, once Dean was ready for him to go. In other words, once Sam was stable enough for him to go. He could get Sam stitched up with what they had, should be able to do it rather easily since Sam was out of it. Wouldn't have the thrashing around to worry about.

To his credit, Cas moved like an angel. He listened, knew where to put his hands, when to be quiet, and when not.

The shoulder looked pretty decent, even for having to dig the slug out. The entry was clean, the skin in good shape, easy to sew together again. The abdomen, not so much. The stitches weren't going to cut it, Dean could see, but they didn't have a lot of options at the moment. He was exhausted, Sam was exhausted, Cas was... well, Cas was ready for what came next. Which, Dean had a list for him.

"Go to the front desk. Get more towels. If his belly opens up, I'm going to need more. Grab whatever size they have. Lots of 'em. I need you to go to a liquor store and bring me back a fifth of Vodka - "

"A fifth?"

Dean smirked. _Pansy-ass_. "A bottle."

"Russian, Finnish, Ukraine?"

Eh, maybe not so much of a pansy-ass. "It doesn't matter." Dean shook his head slightly and then went on, "I need you to find a pharmacy and get something called Procrit. It'll be an injection –"

"What does it do?"

Dean took in a sharp breath. Always with the questions. Worse than Sam. "It'll help build up his red blood cell count. I'll try that first, hopefully won't have to steal any blood from a donor bank anywhere."

"Steal?"

"Borrow, whatever. I just need you to get me about five of the injections. And an antibiotic. Anything that ends with 'mycin' should do just fine."

Cas was nodding. "Okay." He hesitated a moment, the gears in his mind whirring away and Dean figured it must be the morality of the situation. Questions and morals. Freaking angel and his Adam Ant ways. Don't drink, Don't smoke. Goody-Two-Shoes. "You know, I don't think this thing that's holding on to Sam is Lucifer."

A funny feeling tingled Dean's chest then. It wasn't warm or fuzzy or even sickening. It was a dead feeling. There was something about hearing _that_ name in the same sentence as Sam's name that made Dean's skin crawl. Made him want to hit something repeatedly until that feeling released. For now, he rolled his eyes. "You said it was the Devil. That it was a ceremony and Sam had to say no AND that the cat was really a dog and those demons were his guards!" Jesus. Resulting to yelling now because this was the last straw. It was supposed to be over. He went in guns blazing, smoked those sons of bitches, killed a demon cat, got a ghost back her boobs, and rescued the damsel – or brother – in distress. It was a full fucking day and dammit he had the right to yell.

All Cas did was shrug. "I just don't think that if it were really Lucifer that he would have allowed his vessel to be harmed."

Dean dropped his gaze. His eyes fell on his brother's sleeping form. Blood was still everywhere. Caked and dried and tucked into the grooves of his skin. He was battered and butchered. Not whole and new like Michael's would-be suit. Dean let out a heavy breath. "Then what? What do you think it is?"

Castiel had that thoughtful look on his face. The one he used when he was choosing his words, holding back without lying. _He's trying to break it to me_, Dean realized and, "Dude, just say it."

"Could be another demon. Being creative and extra wicked."

"Okay." Demons he could handle.

"Or it could be an Astral Realm."

Dean waited. "What? Asshat? Assclown? Abercrombie? What?"

"Astral Realm," Cas repeated. "It's like a dimension of the spirit. An out of body experience, of sorts. Projections. Near death experiences. Happens a lot when someone dreams. Some people discount these things, think someone is just hallucinating."

"So you're saying... this is all in Sam's head?" Which Dean kind of got. Remembered not long before he was dragged to Hell having his own one on one with his inner self. Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face.

Cas was quick to shake his head. No, no, he wouldn't go that far. But just, think about it, Dean. And Dean did, listened and thought. Felt sick. Sam was the only one that could see the light, he'd seen something with horns, and the demons? Well, what demon had he and Sam met that wanted to befriend the Dark Lord's vessel? What demon was in it for Sam and not for other agendas? What demon wouldn't love to have the opportunity to poke some fun at the future CEO? But, he wanted Dean to understand, wanted it on the record that all this didn't point to that. Just a theory.

Dean tilted his head, ran a hand over his mouth. Watched as Sam slept. One thing at a time. "When you're out, Cas, can you, uh," Dean retraced their steps, their mistakes all the problems they needed to solve, "stop by that house and pull a Winston Wolf on it."

Furrowed brows. Pop culture nitwit.

"Clean the house? Take care of the bodies?" Evidence.

"Oh." Cas nodded. "Yeah, I can take care of that." Started to turn to the door.

"And," Dean sat down on bed opposite Sam, "could you pick up a case of beer when you go to the liquor store?" Didn't wait for the angel to respond. In the Winchester household, if there was such a thing, beer was considered non-alcoholic. "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, man ."

Cas glared.

Dean smiled. _Gotcha_. "Pretty please, with sugar on top."

And the door shut, the angel to do God's work while Dean sat and did what he did best. And it wasn't the waiting.

WWW

Maybe it wasn't a white light. Maybe it _was_ a ball of fire.

Sam wondered if that's how the world was going to end. Bloody and on fire. It's how his world had ended and how it had begun.

He wished he could see – he squinted – hard to focus through the... mist? Vapor? Fog? Whatever. It was tough to see as he stared up and up and – oh! It was the sky. Of course it was. Sky blue. Way above him. His arm drifted up. He couldn't touch it. It was too far way. _Dumb_. Shook his head. That was dumb. It was the _sky_. Of course it'd be too far away to touch.

But, boy, he wanted to touch it. Licked his lips, all puffy and numb. Felt like he was on a bad acid trip.

His feet tingled and he automatically wiggled his toes. They were hot – red hot – burning up. _I'm burning_, he thought. And then, because he couldn't help it, started humming, putting words with the music, _I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you_. Blue Oyster Cult. _Yeah. More Cowbell_.

Odd, the shit he remembered.

He looked down, muck everywhere, clouding his vision to see if he could find his feet. It wasn't quite in focus, but if Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear he was looking at fire. He stared at it for a few seconds, watching as the flames licked around his heel, teasing his soles, wrapping around his ankles and climbing up his calves.

His eyes widened in sudden panic. His mouth opened and he screamed, inhaled a lungful of smoke. He was choking. Coughing and retching and living frantic moments where his mind slid to thoughts of dying. Burning alive.

He heard a muffled sound – a voice asking him a question – not sure what it was and then another voice on top of it. Sam jerked a response, tried to _Wake Up_! or _Get Loose_! And just like his request was being answered, his body started to move.

He glided up, back flat against a wall, nothing holding him up, nothing pulling on him. The sky was still above him, no stars, just a lovely, clear day. He blinked long and slow, looked down to see his own body, fresh blood oozing out of an open shoulder wound. His leg… _holy shit_, Sam frowned.

Sam was fixated on his leg. Couldn't help himself. It was like watching meat cook on a barbeque. The heat moved up over the knee, hugging his thigh, jumping and dancing across his groin to the other side. He tried to jiggle free, tried to blow on it to slow it down. Soon, however, his entire lower extremities were engulfed in flames. He wished he had some water, but remembered last time he was here, he'd been in a lake that he couldn't get out of. Tried to erase all rational and irrational thoughts and just figure out how to wake up from this when his head clunked on something hard. Glanced up, realized, not surprised, that he'd been duped. _It's not the sky at all, dickwad. It's the ceiling_.

It was then that he also noticed that the blood wasn't just coming from his shoulder. He had a gash across his stomach, something had sliced him clear across his abdomen. A wave of nausea hit him and he closed his eyes for a moment.

The taste of copper and iron was thick on his tongue. He swallowed it down, knew it was blood and he started to feel it pooling in the pockets of his cheeks. His body was tugged again, pulled over, dragging across the ceiling now and Sam felt it all come to a sickening halt. Blood dripped from his body, leaked from his lips, everything spilled out of him, no longer wanting to stay with him. Even his own body wanted to call reject. Find a better use on the concrete below.

Sam sucked in a breath, tried hard to keep it all from escaping. He was bent and twisted. Damaged material. Bones mangled. Skin tattered. Soul battered. A car wreck no one wanted to be in but couldn't help from gawking at, either.

A shadow from below him moved as the fire continued to grow. Almost to his neck now but he didn't feel the heat. Only the pain.

There was a voice, or a remnant of a voice tickling the inside of his ear. A thump sound and then, "Knock. Knock."

Sam stiffened. His nose filling with the smell of the smoke, the ash, the burning flesh.

Under him, dancing like it was a feather caught in the wind, the light entered Sam's field of vision. It turned its face to him, brightened at the sight and smiled – teeth straight across its circular form. "Little pig, Little pig… Let me in. Let me in."

No hesitation this time. Sam shook his head, looked at the light and growled out, "No." Swallowed down debris and heat and said it again. "No. Never."

The light lingered for a moment, looked disappointed and then raced away, letting the fog clear and for just a fleeting moment, Sam could see every sparkle, glitter, and shine. Beneath him, was a motel bed. There. Right under him, all snuggly and cozy, arms behind his head, was his brother. And Dean stared up at the ceiling, laughing. Eyes twinkling, mouth gaping full of childlike-Roadrunner-cartoon-chuckles.

Sam narrowed his eyes_. Stupid coyote. He buys it every time. 'Course, he deserves it. And the Roadrunner doesn't even take the time to care. One Meep-Meep and off he goes._

Leaves the coyote to burn 'til there's nothing left but ashes.

Sam watched as Dean's laughter subsided. As the twinkle faded and his mouth clicked shut.

Then he just stared up at the sky – the ceiling, wasn't much of a difference – and Sam could see it. Could read it loud and clear. No fog or mist to obstruct any hidden message. Dean's eyes always had been expressive enough without the words to do the talking for him and they flew up to greet Sam, Helvetica, Bold as it always was: **Traitor**.

And Sam felt so bad then. So _sorry_ in a way that it hurt everywhere. Hurt and burned, branded to the insides of his guts. He blinked at Dean as the mist started moving back in, catching reflections of his body pinned to the ceiling. Sam shouted, yelled out to Dean, wanted to tell him again how sorry he was. Wanted him to know that he didn't want Dean to cut him out. But mostly he just wanted to see his brother. Because Sam was dying, witness to his own murder, and he didn't want to do that alone.

WWW

Sam awoke with a scream, his hands flying to his stomach.

Dean was on his feet. Must have dosed off for a few minutes because the scream surprised him, felt like the world had skidded to a stop all of a sudden. He moved Sam's hands away, saw what he had feared - the wound had opened. Too much blood to just stop with a few stitches. It would need the attention of a hospital staff or, he looked to the bathroom, one other option. Hated to do it.

Sam was swatting at Dean's hands. Eyes closed, face pinched into miles of pain. "Stop laughing, Dean."

"I'm not laughing, Sam." Rolled up the bed sheet and pressed it against Sam's abdomen. "Open your eyes and see for yourself."

But Sam didn't open his eyes. Instead, he kept pushing Dean away, trying to get the sheet off him, mumbling and muttering and Dean finally abandoned the sheet and hunkered near Sam's head. He grabbed his brother's face in both hands, not a slap, but forcefully and shook him once. "Sam!" he yelled out. "Open your eyes!" Shook him again.

Slow and long. Dean waited. Watched as Sam blinked twice, confusion and then recognition and he didn't need a definition to know how it made him feel. "Now you hold this," Dean directed Sam's hands to the sheet. "I gotta get some stuff..." Looked around quickly. No fucking Cas. _Goddamn!_ Retreated to the bathroom and grabbed the last towel from the rack, wet half of it, kept the other half dry. Splashed some water on his own face and neck, caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror.

All he saw was blood. Sam's blood. On his hands, his arms, on his shirt, his jeans. He shimmied out of his flannel, kept his t-shirt on underneath. Grabbed the soap and scrubbed up to his elbows, let the water flush it all away down the drain. _Don't freak out_, he told himself. Grabbed the towel, patted his hands on the dry end. _Don't freaking freak out_. Stared at his reflection in the mirror. _Keep it freaking together_. Grabbed the iron, exited through the door, and just about freaked the fuck out.

Standing at the foot of Sam's bed stood a woman, somewhere around Dean's age, short in stature, stray-cat-skinny, face weathered, light colored hair scooped messily into a clip, staring at the man bleeding to death. She wore a maid's uniform and held a stack of crisp clean towels.

She startled as Dean entered. He wasn't sure which one was more scared in that moment – her or him.

"Hello, Sir," she whispered to Dean, eyes following his body language, briefly resting on the iron, and then skimming his jeans, seeing the leftover blood.

Dean nodded. Wasn't sure what else to say.

She gestured to her delivery, set them on the opposite bed. "Another gentleman stopped in and asked for some clean towels. I didn't have any, but I just took these out of the dryer." Eyes skated back to Sam. "They're warm."

The air was so musty in the room, Dean had already noticed how his breathing felt confined, but now, it took energy to take in a breath. "Thank-you."

Her eyes were still locked on Sam. "Should I call 911?"

Before Dean could answer, a small noise came from the bed. "No. No hospital."

She gave him a small smile. Almost reassuring. The Calvary has arrived. "Do you need a shoo-ture kit?" It was here, on that word – suture – that Dean heard it. An accent. Not one that Americans were accustomed to hear before fifteen years ago or so. Now, however, with wars and genocides and refugees, it was easy to pick up if one listened close enough. She was Bosnian.

"Tried that," Sam replied, his eyelids half-mast.

She cleared her throat, chewed on her bottom lip for a second before asking the next question. "Sir, you are in danger? This man… he wishes you harm?"

And Dean had to give it to her. Alone in a room with two men, one holding an iron and covered in blood, the other obviously injured and she sticks her neck on the line. How many times had one of them arrived at a hospital or had a school official ask _Are you in a relationship where you feel unsafe or abused? _But all of them had asked in private, away from the supposed threat. This chick had guts.

"No," Sam blinked, his forehead breaking out in tiny drops of sweat. "He's my brother. He's trying to help me."

_Trying to save you_, Dean corrected, felt something crumble inside of him. Sam seemed so trusting right now, so sure of himself.

The girl's eyes swung back to Dean and she looked at him differently this time. Not menacing or murderous, but practical. "You're going to try and cauterize him?" She made a tsk sound, dragged it out. "That's gonna be all kinds of painful, Sir."

Dean gripped the iron, found his feet again, shoved past – glanced over – her name tag said Kim, and sidled next to Sam. "I don't have a lot of choices right now."

"True that." She seemed to wait an extra long time before Dean finally gave her another look. She was pulling the sheet back, hissing at the wound. Her right arm was riddled with skin grafts, there was a scar visible off her collar bone, just peeking out of her uniform. Obviously she had seen the war before she fled.

"You ever have to cauterize someone?" Dean asked, kind of suspected he already knew the answer.

She raised her eyes, pinned him in her stare. "Yes, Sir."

Dean had his supplies laid out, the iron was heating up. "Feel like trying it again?"

"What?" She released something that resembled a laugh. "I mean, I miss eating tulumbe, I'd knock someone over for just a bite, but this?" Almost sounded horrified. Dean watched as her chest heaved a few times, her eyes centered on Sam. She shook her head. "You want me to hold him down or..." pointed to the iron.

There was an art to the burning, a technique required. All it really took was three things: a steady hand, knowing your timing, and being emotionally separated. "Think you can hold him?"

She studied Sam, her face cringed. "Honestly? Probably not, Sir."

Okay, well, they couldn't have Sam flailing around, knocking her out, messing up his stomach, having his intestines pop out, or break a lamp. Kim had done this before, maybe it had been a while, but in some aspects, it could be like riding a bike. A big, iron-hot, goddamn-memories-of-war-and-torture-bike. No problem. Kim flashed her catish eyes at Dean, took a long look at Sam's abdomen and raised her eyebrows, which took the rest of her face with it. "I can do this."

That was all Dean really needed to hear. The bed would be the best place to keep Sam, everything was already closer to him, he was comfortable – for now. Dean just had to move a pillow out and readjust a second pillow behind him and – there. Sam was propped up against him, similar to the car, back to chest, but this time he was sweaty and his muscles were taut, not relaxed as they had been before.

Dean could see Sam's eyes, darting glances between Kim and the iron. Once, when Dean was seventeen, his father had to cauterize a wound in his back and the pain from that had been unbelievably painful.

Sam had been the one to hold him during that episode. And what did he do to calm him? _Look right here, man_. Dean had found his eyes. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it all go_. Dean had. He let it all go. Sam hummed, his screechy teenage voice starting in with, _"Some people call me a space cowboy… yeah."_

And Dean had laughed. Actually God honest laughed at his brother right then. Right before Dad had taken a poker out of a cabin fireplace and laid it against Dean's skin. The scream was horrible, the pain was excruciating, but he remembered that. In the face of oncoming torture, Sam had made him laugh.

"Sam, look at me," Dean requested, quietly, softly. Intimacy was a hard thing to get in front of strange eyes.

But as Sam raised his head, met Dean's gaze, Dean realized it wasn't about the intimacy. It was about being a safety pin and holding both of them together when recently every step, every word, every breath had been pulling them apart. He wrapped his left hand around Sam's chest, trapping his left arm and then brought his right arm around, sealing in Sam's right side. He felt Sam's hand clamp on his left forearm and he was as cocooned as Dean was going to get him.

"It's not real, is it?" Sam asked, voice catching on something and he struggled through it to recover, too much on his plate to see what was real and what was imaginary.

Dean kept him pinned, both arms and eyes and shrugged. "Cas thought maybe not. Maybe it's just in your head." Then a long moment held. Dean could hear Kim test the heat on the iron. Sounded ready. "What do you think, Sam?"

A hazy blink, looked like he could just fall to sleep just then, but Sam's eyes opened and when he answered, Dean wasn't sure if his brother was talking about a dream or reality. "I think I'm gonna burn alive."

Kim rested the iron on the left side of the wound. Dean heard the sizzle of the heat, felt Sam buck in his arms, body racking with pain, eyes squinting shut.

"Breathe through it," Dean encouraged. He could see Kim shift the iron from the left to the right and down it came again.

More screaming and kicking. Dean held on tighter until his arms felt like they were going to melt right along with Sam's skin. Kim was done, her body holding still, staring methodically at her work. Sam was still shaking – or shivering – Dean didn't know the difference, his eyes closed like he'd taken a mean right to the jaw. Out like a light.

The skin was red and puckered, but the bleeding had stopped. There were areas that were still open, but they could be re-stitched. Not everything had to be stamped with an iron.

Kim let out a deep sigh. She helped with Sam's legs as Dean got him into bed, she smoothed on an antibiotic cream and put a light gauze over it, let the iron cool down and hung it back on the bathroom hook. She sat down next to Dean on the other side of the bed and placed her scarred hand on his shoulder.

"Why didn't you go to the hospital, Sir?" she asked matter-of-fact. No emotion, not judging, just curious.

Dean shook his head. "That would've been Plan C."

"Ah," she patted his back, "You gentleman just live on Plan B, huh?"

Gentleman. Dean ticked his eyebrows up. Kim's manners were impeccable. "Yeah, Plan A never seems to work out for us."

She stood then, straightened her uniform, scratched at a lone drop of blood, muttered a word in Croatian, and started for the door.

Dean felt the urge to offer her a tip or something.

"You'll be okay, you know," she said, one hand on the knob, turning for one last look. "I've been here for fourteen years. Lost my parents in the war and then it was just me and my brother." A smile, she had a lovely smile. "He died in Bosnia, nine days before we were to flee. He always said, 'Kim, don't be angry. Life's too short for anger.' Where'd that get him, though, right?" Her eyes danced from Dean to Sam and back again. "Over there it was like… the end of the world had come. And over here, it's quieter. But you know what, Sir?" She paused, engaged Dean in her gaze as she opened the door. "I'd go back to that time if I could. When I had him still because when I lost him… that was really the end of the world. Even though I'm safer here, my life was better with him. Even in the danger."

And there it was. Said so softly and so tenderly that Dean held still, not sure if he were even breathing. His eyes slid to find Sam sleeping, quietly taking in breaths and letting them out. Not knowing what dreams he was seeing, what terror was lurking behind his eyes, what monsters were waiting for him in the dark. Because even if this light wasn't real, all of that was still there. Real. Wanting. Hungry.

And Dean wanted to take it back, wanted to have the power to stop it all from ever starting. But he wasn't Superman. Not anymore.

He looked back at Kim, thought he said _Thank-you_. She deserved a lot more, but didn't they all?

She smiled again, stepped into the night, with a "Call if you need anything. You can ask for me by name, Sir." Pulled the door shut and Dean realized he'd forgotten to tell her his name. Thought about that old saying _Sir is what my father is called_ and then felt his stomach rise darkly. Closed his eyes and tried hard to hold everything in. _It's not real, is it? _Didn't know the answer to that. Couldn't protect him anymore. _You have to let me grow up. _Couldn't do that, either. Not wholly. Too much responsibility to let go all at once. _When I fall down, you fall down_. Dean hoped the same was true for getting up. Wished he knew if they were strong enough anymore in the getting up. _When I lost him… that was really the end of the world_. Dean opened his eyes again, said a small prayer for Kim and thanked the nothingness in the room for bringing her to him right then. Wasn't sure why he did it, but he did.

Then he said one for Sam, too.

-TBC- (One more chapter and we're putting it to bed!)

**Playlist:** _Burning for You_ performed by the Blue Oyster Cult

_ The Joker_ performed by the Steve Miller Band (sung by Sam Winchester)


	8. Learning to Fly

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter One

**A/N:** Ah, the end – and before the show comes back on Thursday! I'm totally stoked! I thought I'd share this because I get asked it a lot. Am I a SamGirl or A DeanGirl? I have always maintained that I am bi-Winchester. I don't play favorites and all that crap. However, I have to say that when I went to the SPN Con in Chicago, I had two photo-ops with the boys and my friend **gaelicspirit**. I thought we'd maybe do one with me next to Jared and then switch and I'd be next to Jensen. They told us it was time for us to go and as I crossed over, I looked up and saw Jensen smiling at me and I said (and I quote): "Oh. What am I doing? I don't want you. I'm a SamGirl." His face totally fell and then I turned around to see Jared with his hand up, ready for a high-five.

To this day, I shake my head at the fact that I told Jensen Ackles I didn't want him. God, what was I thinking. So, I may be slightly more a SamGirl. I outted myself in front of them, I guess.

**Beta Who?** My many thanks goes to **MAZ101** who cheers me up every day even if we don't converse. She really has an amazing light in her because I can feel her energy across an ocean.

**Chapter Eight: Learning to Fly**

"You need to sleep. You look like… like crap."

Dean rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Night had gone and morning had erupted and it was so freaking bright in the motel room, he didn't think he could sleep if he tried. "I'm good."

Cas stared at him. Sympathetically, maybe, he thought, but didn't know if Cas actually felt sympathy. Yeah, maybe.

Whatever the case, the angel had been there for him. He'd swung – or flown – by the house, took care of the mess. Called authorities. Bodies would be found. People could bury their dead. He'd picked up all the supplies Dean had requested. Procrit. Azithromycin. Erythromycin. Vancomycin. Castiel wasn't sure which one to grab, so he brought three. Dean had looked in the bag and then back up. Actually smiled.

Cas handed him another bag. Liquor store. Vodka was a little late, but he'd hang on to it in case he needed to sterilize anything else. Or, anything else. Russian, though, more his taste.

Dean sat and waited. Booted up the laptop. Checked Dad's journal. Racked his brain to figure out if they were dealing with anything real or not. Hoped to hell it was because if it wasn't, he'd guess the only answer would be a shrink.

Sam woke up from time to time. Always disoriented at first, but latched on to Dean and seemed to remember where he was. Remembered some other things. Didn't recognize Cas. Complained of a headache. Dean gave him leftover Vicodin. Never complained of his shoulder or stomach. Just his head. _Scritching and Scratching in there_, he'd said.

So Dean had set up wards along Sam's pillow. Dream demon, maybe. Said the exorcism he had memorized from before. Maybe this time it'd do some good.

"What are you mumbling?" Sam asked, awake again. And Dean told him, explained how the Archangel Michael had said it during his banishment of Lucifer. "Sounds like a prayer," Sam remarked. Maybe it was. Maybe that's all any of them were. "Keep saying it. Maybe it'll work." So Dean repeated it a few times, Sam listening, eyes closed until he went to sleep.

And Dean felt his eyes fill then. Had to press his fingers deep into his eye sockets to stop the tears. Cas behind him and, Jesus, God the love the guy, but sometimes he was too close. Sometimes Dean just needed room to breathe.

"Dean, why don't you go outside and grab a Coke. I'll sit here with him for a while."

Dean turned his head. His jacket was being offered to him. Human beings were odd things. Strong and frail at the same time and sometimes when the moment was just right, vulnerable. Dean swallowed, looked up. Vulnerable to friendship when the circle of trust in his family rarely let anyone in. Only out.

"Salt lines," Dean reminded him as he got up, headed for the door.

"Salt lines." Cas nodded.

Dean stepped out into the cool air. Looked up, sun shining down, but still cool in Iowa. Checked his watch. Already after two in the afternoon. Wondered if the diner had any good pie. Wondered if Kim was working the front desk. Found himself lingering there too long and he shook himself off the thought, pulled out his phone and pressed his speed dial. Cracked a smile when Bobby answered the phone _"Pizza Hut."_ Leaned against the brick wall outside of the Inn and started a bit of small talk with him. Always kind of liked the way Bobby let him do that, start with a warm-up band. Dad had never bothered. Went right for what was playing on the main stage.

Always.

"So."

"_So."_

Dean held still, phone pressed against his ear, like he could maybe hear better that way. Probably was to feel closer, but he would never admit that. He'd already put his foot in his mouth when he asked if Bobby had heard anything about bigger things like the apocalypse and Bobby had replied with _Let me just roll over to this window and take a look…_ Then he'd ungruffed, degruffed, whichever, and they shared an uncomfortable minute of silence.

Then Dean filled him in on Sam.

Bobby let out a string of words, too garbled to understand but Dean knew it was bothering him. Felt kinda guilty at burdening their old friend with this, but one thing the three of them had all agreed upon when Bobby was discharged from the hospital was they were to check in with him. At least once a week. Made Bobby feel better. Well, maybe more than Bobby.

"_You need me to come your way?"_

Dean blinked, cleared his throat and it sounded broken up, like he was falling apart. He sniffed and winced because that sounded like he was crying and he most certainly was not crying. Ran a hand down his cheek just to be sure it was dry.

"You driving now?"

A huff. _"I've been living with this for a coupla months now, kid. What do you think I've been doing with my time? Gathering fairy dust? Learning to fly?" _Then a pause, almost apologetic and then softer, _"If it's got wheels, I can get there."_

This time Dean swallowed and part of him wanted to tell Bobby to throw himself in the car and come on down. It wasn't that far of a drive, but Dean wasn't sure that Bobby was ready for, well, for the work right now. "I appreciate it, Bobby." And he did. Bobby had a way, even when he was angry, at being more parental than the boys' parent ever had been. Let them be more of who they were supposed to be. Not who he thought they were supposed to be. So Dean refused his offer and asked, "How 'bout you? You okay?"

"_What the hell kinda question is that?"_ Dean closed his eyes – more like squeezed them shut – fucking words. And then, just like he could see through the receiver, Bobby's voice again, more gently, _"Yeah, I'm okay."_ Because that's what Dean needed to hear. _"Whadda 'bout you?"_

Dean nodded into the phone. "Me? I'm good."

"_Lie."_

"You know, I'm… okay."

It was all so quiet for a few seconds and Dean had started to think that maybe his call had been dropped when Bobby suddenly invaded his eardrum again._ "Dean, the damage…" _and then held a breath, fidgeted with something in the background. Flipping through a book. Research._ "How deep is it?"_

Bobby could have just asked the question to three fucking different scenarios but regardless of pointing a finger at one, Dean knew. He knew which he was talking about. Sniffed again and ran his hand down his face. Not crying. He wasn't. "I'm just... He's, uh… he's all I got." Stuck on that for a second. Let the words sink in, find their place. "And I'm just sitting here, Bobby. Watching him sleep." Dean went still, could hear Bobby take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Why does that scare me?" Felt a tear slip and wanted to kick himself for saying that stupid, stupid word.

There was a long pause and then Bobby replied, _"Because you know that's where the monsters are."_

WWW

It was an odd thing to be asleep and yet alert at the same time. Stuck in some parallel universe that didn't exist and didn't have connections to keep him grounded. And yet it did exist and there were connections. Just ones that distorted the way he remembered things. Truths became lies. Fact became fiction. Words warped somewhere between thinking them and having them come out of his mouth. Names were lost. Memories were changed.

Even when he could hold on to the one thing he remembered above all others, his own brother, even then, in this world Dean morphed. Became something he feared.

This time when Sam awoke, he wasn't stranded in a lake, drowning. Nor was he pinned to a ceiling, on fire. This time when he opened his eyes – and, damn, they felt like they were really open – he was safe and secure in the backseat of an early 1970's version of the Ford Mach 1 Mustang.

He immediately broke out in a sweat. He couldn't breathe – felt like the air was gone, or dead, or nonexistent – and he just couldn't breathe. Sucked in a breath, felt like his lungs were being squeezed, pulled through a grinder, it hurt so bad. His heart rate sped up, galloping in his ears. Everything going from calm and secure to _Get me the fuck outta here _in less than a second.

He'd rather drown or burn to death if he didn't have to be _here_.

"This isn't real," he said into the nothingness. Looked out each window. Pitch black on the outside, but here on the inside, enough light to see. "It isn't real." Tried the handles on the door. Didn't budge. Pushed on the cushion of the seat. Sprung back in his hand. Felt pretty goddamn real. Brought his legs up close to his waist and shoved, ramming them at the rolled up windows.

Ended up hurting his foot. Cussed like a son of a bitch.

It all screamed _Real!_ and, yet, Sam said it again, "This isn't real." Hoped for a miracle because he needed to wake up and get out of this car right now. Tried to take a breath, felt the air around him shift, tasted it on his tongue: sulfur. Acrid and hot. Burning.

Sam felt his abdomen twinge and he suddenly doubled over in pain, his arm crossing his stomach. His forehead rested on the driver's seat for a moment and he panted. One breath in, another out. Tried to talk himself down from the ledge of panic. _NotrealNotrealNotreal_.

Opened his eyes. There. The driver's seat, dead ahead of him, empty. Steering wheel ready for warm hands to start her up, take her for a spin. His eyes skated over to the passenger seat. Empty as well. Chair pushed back as far as it would go. Fit to accommodate someone of a taller stature.

Sam felt everything inside him slide then. Too many thoughts racing through his mind, raw and evil and dripping with his finger prints all over them. His face scrunched up in pain and he pushed away until he felt his back smack into the cushion behind him. He could feel the blood, could smell it as he removed his arm and looked down. His guts were spilling out all over the car. Slashed clean across his stomach, no one here to patch him up and dammit if his insides weren't crawling out of him now, leaving him feeling sick and bloody and wishing that something wanted to stay with him.

The car grumbled to life then and Sam looked ahead. Saw a red light flash on the dashboard _Hazard_, heard a car horn, and realized that it wasn't the car itself, but that the radio had kicked on. _Running with the Devil_. Roth, not Hagar, when Van Halen was cool. Eddie using his Ibanez Destroyer for the high pitched guitar riffs.

Eddie Van Halen. Ranked #70 on _Rolling Stone's 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time_.

Dean had been so horrified. Sam held on to that. Remembered that. He had almost taken it personally.

_Dean had looked up from the magazine. Had actually got all wide-eyed excited when he saw it at a Discount Mart. Hell, the magazine was on a bargain bin. Was already two years old when Dean had found it._

"_Just look it up online," Sam suggested. _

_But Dean, smiling that thousand dollar grin as he handed over his money simply asked, "What would be the fun in that?" Threw Sam the keys so he could bury his nose in the countdown and when he came to number seventy, he was speechless._

"_Someone has to better, man."_

"_But sixty-nine others? Dude." _

"Sam." Ah, back to reality. Or not. Still wasn't sure where he was, but he could feel toasty hands on his cheeks. "Nothing to be scared about, man." Felt a playful nudge. The voice was rotating in the air, not in his head, but maybe in the suffocating of the air. It was sultry, deeper than he remembered. Seductive as a siren. He shut his eyes to the touch, hiding his sorrow and shame. Wanting nothing more but to break now, let it all pour out. But all he could do was turn away, hide his tears and swallow it down. Because he knew now who this was stalking him.

A breath against his ear, closer, felt his hair curl against his neck. _"It's not that bad."_

Sam tried to say something, but an odd sound escaped his lips. Everything was clogged, lodged in his throat. Not enough ventilation to form even the simplest of words. This… this thing was in his head. Taking memories and conversations and feelings that was his and… and what? Sam frowned.

"Come on, Sam. When a bear charges you do you run away? Do you do nothing? Or do you charge back?" Those were Dean's words. She was taking. Taking from Sam what Sam took from her. You only get what you gave.

"Cat got your tongue?" And the voice changed, like everything in this world. Seductive one minute, deadly the next. "Because I gotta tell ya, Sam, this? This whole Devil in the details crap? It's getting pretty fucking old."

Sam opened his eyes. Head pressed against the window. Glass reflecting only his twisted image back. He waited. Listened as certain death spoke.

"You'd think that demons would want to keep you safe, wouldn't you? Isn't it funny that really all they want is for you to be dead. Lucifer doesn't care about them. Us. Demons are expendable. Easily replaced. But you?" Arms around him now, warming up. Everything warmer in here. "We couldn't help ourselves. You're like our ocean, you know. Calm on the surface, but a storm underneath swelling, waiting to explode. And me?" And there was laughter and it was full of blood. "I'm here for the revenge. But you already know that, don't you?"

He felt a leap in the temperature, his stomach curdling violently and he didn't want to look, didn't want to know which one of them was on fire because this heat was close and he didn't think he could stand it if it were him or if it were her.

"We keep each other human." Her voice melded then, slipped into a lower register. Almost male.

"Please, stop." Couldn't help himself, but it was said softly. A plea. No real anger behind it.

"Your brother's gonna be the death of you, Sam."

And that he believed. He pushed away from the window, eyes still away, felt it move next to him, releasing him. Giving him back some control. Funny how at the time, Sam never thought about it: What happens to an innocent person in the afterlife if its death served an evil purpose? What does that do their soul? Does it twist and alter?

For so many people, Sam Winchester was their hero. But for one person, he was her monster.

"Look at me." She waited. "I was never betting on the game, Sam." Giggled now because she was fucking with him. Using Dean's words in her voice to get him exactly where she needed him.

Vulnerable.

Of course, this demon wasn't finished. They were never really finished. "Or you still got Plan B. You could say yes to Lucifer and I'm sure he'd heal all wounds or something like that. And then I'll go away. Await your orders."

Sam felt the pain again from his abdomen. Looked down. It was dark like blood at the bottom of a river. Cut like his mom. Like Jess. Only two ways out of this car.

"Answer me."

Sam turned his head, slowly, so not to be blinded by the light that engulfed what was once her human form. Only it wasn't a light anymore. It was fire. It was always fire. And Sam was going to burn alive.

He found Cindy McClellan's sockets peering out of the flames. It wasn't her fault. She had been overpowered by a demon. Taken over, her body foreclosed upon, and her blood sucked dry.

Sam swallowed. Met her eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered. And what did it mean? What could it mean? There were no _I'm sorry_'s for this. For what he had done. What he had done to her. To destroy her to change him.

Her form shimmered, shone brighter, but he could still read it. There was no forgiveness.

And Sam thought, _Yeah._ He kinda deserved this.

WWW

"Dean."

Stale breath with a hint of Russian Vodka on his tongue was how he woke up. He felt his body being shaken. Opened his eyes, lashes sticking together like honey, to find Castiel staring down at him. Brows furrowed, pinched lines over the bridge of his nose. Even in the dim of night, Cas still held a glow about him.

"What?" Voice husky from sleep. He'd finally caved, let Cas sit watch for a few hours while he got some much needed rest. Dreamt of a dark place this time. Screams filling in as a soundtrack. His hands wrapped around somebody's heart. Still beating. That goddamned place still haunted him.

"There's a problem with Sam."

_Really?_ Dean blinked rapidly a few times, cleared his head. _Which problem would that be?_ "His wound open up?" Looked over Cas' shoulder to Sam's bed. Empty.

"No."

And Dean was up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, Cas pointing over to the end of the bed. Dean's gaze followed. Against the wall, Sam was on his knees, eyes open, but not seeing. His face was free of color, almost ghost-like as his lips moved soundlessly. His hands were behind his back, like he was bound and he swayed back and forth in a gentle, rhythmic motion.

"He's been doing this for about thirty minutes or so. I try to talk to him, but he doesn't seem to hear me."

Dean stared for a few seconds, watching the odd dance, taking in the change in the room, air hard to breathe, like someone was holding a wet washcloth over his mouth. Scared, really, emotions bubbling to the surface.

"Can I do anything?" Cas calm as predictable. And Dean needed that.

"Yeah, uh," remembered that even though three could be a crowd, also knew that at times, three was the magic number. "I need to see if I can snap him out of this. I need some smelling salt and maybe, you could stop by the front desk. See if they have any extra pillows, blankets." Pushed off the bed now, Sam seemed to notice him. "Maybe something hot to drink or soup or –"

Cas glanced over. Nodded to Dean. "Be back soon. Remember, salt lines."

"Salt lines," Dean agreed, brushed by the angel, crossing the few steps to his brother. He fell to his knees in front of Sam, hands reaching out, hovering, suddenly not sure. Twenty-six years of protecting and teaching and fighting and loving and sacrificing and now? Now Dean's hands fell to his sides, not knowing any longer where to start because it never ended well.

_You have to let me grow up._

When Dean was twenty-six, he had sought Sam out because he couldn't find their dad. And Dean didn't want to endure that journey alone. When he was twenty-six, they had hardly ever even heard of a person being possessed by a demon. Now it was their job every day of the week.

_I just want my brother back 'cause… just 'cause._

A hand on Sam's left arm and Dean could see his brother take a long, slow blink.

"Sam?"

And Sam was staring at him. Looking at him in a way that Dean hadn't felt in a long time. Seeing him, no words, just seeing and Sam leaned in a little, his right hand reaching out, clutching Dean's left.

"What is it, Sam?"

There was a _whoosh_ behind him, smelled a spark of sulfur, like someone had just lit a match, as Dean's head turned. Standing in the corner of the room was a figure on fire, transforming quickly to take human-shape. A definitive head, spirally arms, legs like spindles. Flames everywhere, not igniting anything, the heat contained somehow with its form.

"Oh, Holy Hell," Dean breathed. Felt Sam's grasp tighten.

Then it was a twisted mass of matter as the thing tried to fit itself into its body. Arms shortening, lengthening, shortening again, legs becoming firmer, stronger. A voice boxing out of the head, hitting replay, stealing, hooking and snagging on bits and pieces of his life, verbal vomit at its best: "I don't know when it happened, maybe when I was in hell or maybe when I was staring right at you, but the Sam I knew, he's gone." Then a tick of the neck. "She's poison, Sam!" Hands formed, fingers curling with long flares. "It's not something that you're doing! It's what you are! It means –" A low giggle. "It means you're a _monster_." Voice shrilling on the last word, blissfully letting it roll off the roof of its mouth.

Dean spun towards it. What the fuck was it? Only thing he had ever seen like this had been his mom back in Lawrence. And this was not her. Maybe it was a sick joke. Maybe just another dagger to the heart to prove that it had him. Had _them_.

He could feel two things at the same time, prodding him. One was the Knife, tucked in the back of his waistband, pressed between his jeans and his Calvin's, suddenly feeling its weight in gold. Second was his brother, gripping his arm so tight, Dean felt it pinch, thought maybe his blood supply was going to get cut off.

"I'm sorry. I mean, this is all my fault. I know that. What you're doing...it's not gonna save me. It's only gonna kill you." It grinned now, teeth not visible, but the entire face turned up into a happy, Christmas-big grin. Dee-lighted!

Dean twirled back to Sam. He needed him to let him go. Let him get this thing before it got them, but that's when he saw it in Sam's eyes. Sam kind of knew this was coming. Kind of thought that maybe it should come.

For him.

"Dean," Sam swallowed, sweat dripping off his brow, hair spiked in wet tents. "Dean, I killed a nurse."

Said so clearly. Like it was real. Like it had happened, but it couldn't have happened. Dean would have remembered if Sam had –

"Before the convent. Right before…" hesitated… "Lilith." Swallowed again. And Dean got it. Sam's head cocked to the side like he did when he was sorry, when he felt bad, when he was guilty. "I needed more blood. And this demon had trapped itself in a nurse and I –" kind of drifted off now, letting Dean fill in the blanks. But, still had to say it because it was a confession after all. "I drank her blood."

There. There it was. What Cas was talking about. A jump. Not knowing how high you were soaring from or how far it was going to be 'til you hit the ground. Or if you were going to get lucky and someone was going to catch you. Sam closed his eyes and Dean lost his air for a moment, felt frail and helpless and yet oddly relieved. Everything tilting to the left, nothing in the room except them. Them and this leap of faith.

And over the quiet that followed, the voice that kept on giving, piped out, "Sam, remember what Dad taught you, okay? Hey, remember what I taught you." Then the thing figured out its legs and started to walk.

Dean could see the slight quiver of Sam's chin right before the tears fell. He reached behind, grabbed his brother roughly by the back of the neck and brought him close, voice dropping to a low whisper. "What is this thing?"

"Her." Sam's voice thick, an effort, unsure of where he existed with his brother. And Dean felt for the kid, so much of everything was Sam's fault and yet nothing was Sam's fault.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Her? Her? Like, the nurse her?"

Felt Sam's head bob and Dean pulled away. Hell, fucking, no. It was demon playtime with the Winchesters. A demon had taken over this poor woman's body and a demon had convinced his brother to drink her blood and a demon had orchestrated this entire gag so they could mess with Sam. Because this is exactly what demons did.

And Sam? Sam couldn't let things go. Had to hang on to them forever. Punish himself for things that weren't always in his control. Dean took a breath. Kind of like he'd been doing. Not being able to get over the fact that Sam had chose a demon over his own brother when really she had it worked out pretty damn sweet with Sam. The outcome would have been the same, regardless, nothing to win and everything left to lose.

And it still wasn't over. It was walking over to them now in a fiery humanoid shape. Didn't matter which demon this was, it was still a demon and they wanted the same thing that all demons wanted: For Sam to give himself away.

"Answer me." It spoke, flames dancing as it came closer, tightening the gap. And then for an added jab, "Monster." Its fingers curled forward, like a tamed snake and out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam tug towards it.

"Shut-up!" Dean yelled, looked over, saw Sam shake his head, his eyes pinned on the fire.

"No. My answer is no."

It stopped, hand coming on its hip briefly. "They were right. You all are just two damaged halves of a fucked-up whole, aren't ya?" Offered a soulless smile again and it was horrible. It had them. Dean couldn't just stab it with the Knife. Too much fire, too much power and the exorcism he had recited hadn't even seem to bother it. All it had done was manifest out of Sam.

"Sam –"

"No," Sam growled.

"Sorry, Sam, but you didn't do the right thing. Didn't make the right choices. You made the wrong ones and it's going to haunt you for the rest of your life."

Dean blinked. She was throwing Sam's words back at him. The ones he had used to warn the half-demon boy Jesse. Dean could still see him, looking up asking Sam why he was telling him this and Sam, so shaky, so on edge, telling him that he had to believe that someone could still make the right choices.

Even if he couldn't.

"Veni in auxilium hominum," Dean heard Sam suddenly mutter. He turned, looked at his brother, still swaying, repeating the first verse and then taking a breath. "Quos Deus creavit inexterminabiles." His eyes swung to Dean and he nodded.

Dean turned on his heels, looked on wide-eyed as the flames flickered, changing from red-orange to a bluish glow. Sam was quiet, almost waiting and Dean knew he had said the recited ritual enough times for Sam to commit it to memory. And Sam always had an excellent memory. _Two halves of a whole_. Dean licked his lips, pushing up with his legs. "Et ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit." And then Sam joined him, "Et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio."

The flames shot up high, like the demon was trying to hang on for dear life and then sputtered until a bluish flicker remained. It moved slowly as the fire dissipated, sucked away into the dense air, leaving behind trails of smoke. A form was still very present, left standing, blackened by the heat and the fire, too difficult to make out through the char if it was even male or female and Dean was taking steps forward, Knife in hand, raised to his shoulder.

It lunged once, gnarled hands snagging on his shirt as he approached, still hot against his skin, trying to shove Dean away. Dean felt his feet slide, the demon keeping a lot of power contained in itself. He tried to come after it again, but his momentum was failing. There was a sound like a screeching cat and Dean swore he felt something fly between them, fur tickling his nose, the smell of burnt hair and across from him, he could see visible scratches appear red-hot on the demon's face. Its mouth open, in a silent scream but what was said and done didn't matter anymore. Dean plunged the blade into its chest, watched as electricity ran through its skeleton. Everything still in motion as he backed away, pulling the Knife with him as he did, the figure crashing to its knees, swaying briefly as his brother was, eyes fastened on each other before it shattered to the floor.

There was a plume of smoke, but it didn't linger, it evaporated around them, the scene coming to focus in dust and silt. What was left of the demon quickly turned to ash, almost blending in with the dirty carpet, would probably be easily disposed of with a vacuum cleaner.

Dean heard Sam make a sound, somewhere between hysteria and collapse. He circled around, crouched to his knees and put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam looked up to him, eyes brimming. "I did it," he whispered. "I told it no. I told you… I wouldn't let you down." Stared hard at Dean. "I told it no."

That was Sam's silent fear. Of letting his brother down again. Dean met his eyes, felt words on the tip of his tongue. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Absolution. Release. Couldn't quite get them to form, though. He was never very good at words.

Sam was breathing like there was no tomorrow, air coming way too shallow and Dean could see he was falling fast, everything that had been banging around inside of him finding its way out. Leaving him depleted. "I told it no," he said again, softly.

Dean nodded, snapped out of it, and did exactly what Sam needed him to do at that moment. His arms reached out and as Sam came tumbling down, Dean caught him, heard Sam exhale against his neck and wrapped his arms around him so he could feel it was real. And feel that he mattered.

WWW

It was all still groggy and everything in his head felt like it was full of cotton, soft and hard to decipher, but it was getting better. He remembered Cas' name immediately as he stormed through the door of the motel. He asked Dean to call Bobby, which judging by the look on Dean's face, pleased his brother.

It was all clicking again, like pieces to a puzzle. One by one, found and placed to fit. And it all hurt. He felt like his insides were ripped open. All of them. The wounds smarted, hissed at him sometimes, but his heart is still what kept him up at night.

They stayed two more nights, quiet ones, pizza for Dean, soup for Sam, old movies and refreshments of all sorts. The break was welcomed, needed, but Sam could feel his brother was getting fidgety. Needed to move on, hunt things, save people. Save the world. It was a 24/7 job.

"Come on," Dean slapped Sam's leg as they swung around the Inn. "Let's grab a piece of pie to go."

Sam smiled grimly. "Go ahead –"

"Come on." Elbowed him this time. "I want you to meet somebody."

Dean wasn't the kind that got so excited for either one of them to meet new people, so Sam opened the door, followed him into the Swing Inn, the bell above the door clanging. Dean strutted up to the counter, requested a half a cherry pie to go and asked if Kim was working. Sam followed him around the corner, down a short hallway to where the restaurant became the Inn and behind a rack of postcards and cheesy toys to purchase, a skinny woman, flipping through a book. Bored, chewing on her extra long finger nails, barely noticing the approach of customers.

Dean knocked on the counter. "Hey."

And she jumped a bit, skittish, her scrawny shoulders tensing and then relaxing at Sam's older brother's award winning grin. "Oh. Hello, Sir." Gave him a small smile, mouth tipping up at the corners.

"Sam, this is Kim." Dean tilted his body to the right, his hand gesturing towards Sam. "We're leaving. Thought we'd come by and say good-bye."

She glanced over his shoulder, eyes landing on Sam and he remembered that look suddenly, felt it pang against his abdomen. He blinked once. "Hey," he said to her like it was the only thing he could think of to say.

"You're up." Her voice perky. "You look… better." Her eyes fell to Dean. "Both of you do."

A heavy moment passed and then Dean cleared his throat. "Well, we're going."

"Okay."

"And we really wanted to stop by and," Dean signaled to Sam again and Kim smiled, couldn't help herself, knew it was coming. "say thank-you."

She shrugged. "It was no big deal."

Dean nodded, Sam watched as he looked away for a few seconds, back again, eyes darker. "It was to me."

Sam frowned. Felt like an outsider looking in, but yet he knew he wasn't.

"Well, here," she reached around the corner and grabbed a postcard, signed it, and handed it over to the brothers. "So you won't forget me." Smiled again and then, "Oh – here, take this." Gave them a toy off the display shelf. "Ask it a question and it will predict the future. Gives you the answers in funny phrases. I hear it always gets it right."

"That so?" Dean took them both. Nodded, thanked her again and moved out of the way as she extended her hand out to Sam.

He moved forward, took her hand in his and shook it. "Thanks," he said, eyes skimming hers.

She winked at him. "Just, watch out for yourself," she purred. "Keep yourself sh-afe."

Sam let go. Felt an odd comfort with this woman. Kinda not sure if he wanted to stay or if he should go, but his brother was ready and there were roads open, calling to them.

The Impala was surprisingly warm as they turned and headed South. Dean mentioning it might be good to get out of the cold. He'd thumbed through the Almanac and it looked like this Winter was going to be a screaming diva biotch for so much of the Midwest.

"You okay?" Dean asked. Been a while since he'd checked. Big brother and all, kind of felt like asking.

Sam nodded, opened up the toy Kim had given him. It was like a Magic 8 ball only it had Jimmy Walker on the front of it, proudly proclaiming this was _"Dy-No-Mite!"_ and the holder just had to ask it a question.

"Sam, you know, that nurse… you know she never had a chance, right?"

Yeah, he knew that. Nodded. But, still… "I made the wrong decision. I shouldn't have…" remembered her screams, her pleas. "I was a monster."

Dean seemed to soak that in a moment. "Well, you made the right decision this time. You gotta, I don't know, hold on to that somehow." A couple of minutes passed, Dean sitting quietly, the radio a low hum in the background. Sam wishing he could hold on to that. Knew he couldn't, but really wishing that Dean would just shut the hell up. Talk was cheap when the world was coming to an end. "Wonder why it was on fire."

Sam sighed. "Because," he answered, "they only way I could face her was if I didn't have to see her." Sam let out a breath. Because when he closed his eyes, he dreamt in fire. It was a part of him.

"Whatcha gonna ask it?" Dean asked, eyes skating over to the toy Sam held in his hands.

Sam smiled. "Nothing."

"Oh, come on. There's nothing you don't want to know? Like 'Was Veronica hotter than Betty?'" Motioned for Sam to pull the slot handle, just like this was a game in Las Vegas and Dean waited.

Sam glanced up, made a funny face.

"What? What does it say?"

Sam shrugged with his brows. "Oh, Archie."

A grin spread across Dean's face. "Like Edith and Archie?" Looked out the window for a minute. "Huh. Ask it something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Ask it something like, who's gonna save the world from the apocalypse?"

"Dean."

"I mean it. You started it. I started it. Okay, so we have to ask it together 'Who's gonna save the world, Jimmy? Sam or Dean?"

Sam glared. "Fine. Who's it gonna be?" Pulled the handle. The slots came to a stop and Sam stifled a chuckle, looked away and then flashed the screen at his brother, the red light flashing, _Who loves ya, baby? _back at him.

The Impala veered to the left, taking them around a corner, sun shining down on them for once. "Who would have known?" Dean said, eyes darting across the barren fields. "Telly Savalas is gonna save us all."

Which caused a hearty laugh from Sam, his wounds feeling like they were going to pop apart from the force of the chuckles. He took in a deep breath and held it for a minute, letting it out nice and slow. Okay, there, more comfortable. Felt the heat on his face, his brother shift next to him. Felt like it might be okay for a little while. Glanced out the window and thought briefly that he saw a white light chasing him out the rear view mirror.

Blinked. And it was gone.

-The End -

**Playlist:** _Running With the Devil_ performed by Van Halen

**A/N:** I know, I don't always answer everything and you may still be left with a 'huh?' about a few things… totally intentional.


End file.
